Half-Blind
by Nutzoide
Summary: The adventures of Arith, Nord survivor of Helgen, as she explores/wanders/stumbles around Skyrim having discovered her abilities. An in-character blind playthrough of the game, expanded to give the Dovahkiin, and hopefully many NPCs, a greater voice.
1. A Hero in Blood and Deed

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of Skyrim or anything that comprises it. This is a non-profit story written solely for my own enjoyment and that of anyone who wishes to read it. All original characters are mine. Please don't use them without permission.

Story Notes: In making absurdly slow progress with other original writings I've ended up committing something of a fanfiction sin - And so you have this fic. This is a telling of the Skyrim story, expanded upon from the point of view of my first character as I play this game for the first time, with minimal research or references into anything until after I complete any given portion of the game. A blind run, basically.

As with most games of this type I find the character generation nice and deep, but largely lacking in personality and actual 'role-playing' for the protagonist. Choosing skills, weapon preferences and feats and factions to side with doesn't make for a deep or involving character, especially when said character can do everything and join everyone with no consequence, and so I've given my Nordwoman a voice.

I will be playing through the game 'in character', and cropping out all the extraneous filler the game throws at me such as random caves and sidequests that don't add anything to my character's story. I will be justifying silly game mechanics that I use through her, and will expand upon the game's events with various characters' opinions and mid/post-quest narrative as I would have expected them to have them.

But there will also be dialogue copied straight out of the game, for the sake of the game's actual plotline. Hopefully not too much, but that will depend on how the game unfolds. There will be content and inventory specifics that doesn't appear in the story, because they seem unnecessary or redundant. And there will be quests I skip in story, or only part finish, or finish sub-optimally, because that's what the character would do.

If that doesn't appeal then consider yourself warned, and I will ignore complaints that it isn't what you wanted. If you're willing to give it a try, hopefully you'll like it.

xxx

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 1: A Hero in Blood and Deed

Arith Half-Blind awoke in a fit of shivers. The sky had been clear only hours ago when she and her Companion had bedded down in the deepest hours of the night, but now a freezing rain fell through the open roof, drenching the tatted bedcovers and seeping into the leather cuirass and breeches she wore.

Across the small destroyed hut Farkas sat on the table - the hut's only remaining furniture - watching as she threw off both her veil of sleep and the sopping rags. If he cared about the rain he didn't show it. "Sun is rising, Shield Sister, and the rain has only just arrived. We should shelter here until it passes."

Arith growled in the back of her throat and strode over, grabbing her bow so that the gut string wouldn't soak through, and she ducked beneath the table. It was the only shelter left in the hut, and the sheets of water pouring in would have soaked them both to the bone in the mere ten minutes it would have taken them to get to Whiterun's west tower. As she crouched, shivering beneath the table, Arith muttered something about short-sightedness under her breath. If they'd taken those few extra minutes to walk on they would have been dry at least. The guards stationed at the ruined tower could have kept a fire burning within at least.

A moment later Farkas joined her, stripping out of his armour and drying himself on the clothing beneath. "You'll forgive my improperness, I hope."

Such a big word coming from a thick-headed beast like him, Arith thought, but she said nothing and merely turned her back. She had said nothing to him since discovering his 'secret' - a fearful nausea in response to his curse had stopped their friendly talk dead. The Companions' mercenary group had seemed a good place for her; steady money, straightforward battles, and many of them were Nords like herself. A good group to rebuild her life with, and who didn't care to ask questions.

Lycanthropy she hadn't expected. In fact, this was a close as she had let him since seeing him change in the Cairn, outside of battle with the undead Draugr.

It was foolish. The Jarl of Whiterun called her 'Dovahkiin' - 'Dragonborn' in the common tongue - and the implications were clear. She was something more than just another Nord hunter-woman with a buried axe she had once ground. She was... not sure what she was. But her very presence had stripped the meat off a dead dragon's bones, and infused her voice with something dreadfully powerful. Not magic, she knew enough to understand that, but something similar. Something *primal*.

No, there was little chance she would stay with the Companions now. She had questions for their elder Kodlak, but after that she would need to part company with them, with all haste.

Finished in his drying, Farkas spoke, reaching again for conversation. "Arith, you asked my reasons for joining the Companions. What of your own? You have proven well worthy, but why accept Aela's offer to seek us out?"

xxx Three days previously

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

Arith pulled herself upright, and a crick in her neck sent pain through her already aching body. The immediate desire to soothe it was halted as more pains filled her arms, tied behind her at the wrists. The Divines only knew how she had remained sitting as the cart they were in headed down a steep, rough road, through a wood somewhere or other. They were still in Skyrim at least, or so the snowy trees implied. The man opposite her spoke on.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

It all came flooding back. She *had* been heading for the border, but an ambush had been the least of Arith's worries then. Imperial or Stormcloak, it likely wouldn't have mattered either way.

The thief and the Stormcloak man began to throw recriminations at each other, and Arith stopped listening. The Imperials at least had no reason to hunt her, not beyond breaking past a toll point. But if the other men in her cart were telling each other the truth, she was being transported with royal usurper Ulfric Stormcloak himself, and that meant only one thing: They were heading for the chopping block. Out of the skillet then...

xxx Present

The rain had lasted only twenty minutes before vanishing as swiftly as it had arrived, and thankfully the sun had remained bright behind those brief storm clouds. Their clothing would dry quickly as they walked, and though not as stout as some Arith was still a Nord. Weathering the freezing chill in the meanwhile was a hardship she could endure.

"So the Imperials sought your head?" Farkas asked as they began their march. "Their people seem content enough to see you walk around Whiterun now."

"I know." Arith rubbed at the scar that ran down from her dead right eye. An eye that appeared glassy and white within its reddened lids. "Whatever they wanted, it must not have been circulated before the dragon destroyed Helgen."

"Heh, why spread news of a dead woman? It changes nothing. As many of us found refuge with the Companions as joined for honour or glory."

Arith did not reply. Clearly she had said too much already. They continued to walk in silence towards the broken tower in the distance.

"... I had not thought the Dovahkiin would be cowed by a werewolf."

"I am not *cowed*! I had not expected warriors who harp on of 'honour' to have embraced such a curse!"

"It can be a curse at times, yes. But to stand against our enemies with such strength; It is no less honourable than your bow, shot from the shadows. But you step up with axe and shield when challenged, as do I Shield Sister."

The heavy silence fell again.

"Very well, Arith. Tell me more of your flight from Helgen then."

xxx Two days previously

"So, have you given her the letter yet?"

Arith regarded the Bosmer wood elf with cautious unease. That he was an elf had put her on edge when she had first arrived in Riverwood in any case, but Faendal's open, if clipped manner had set her at ease. After the escape from that dragon through beast-infested caves any friendly face was welcome, even an elf's. After selling the spoils of her flight she had asked him to train her in the use of a bow, and spent all but a few gold pieces to pay for the day's tutelage.

Archery and following the hunt had been a passion of hers since her youth, but Arith had never actually held a bow before stealing one from the burning Helgen fort. Though she understood the town's desire for haste in summoning guards from Whiterun, she wanted to be prepared before she made that journey, and she might never meet another archer willing to teach her.

Likewise, the wife of the trader who had bought her spoils had made a request of her own, and providing bandits with a swift demise she *did* have experience of, so she would stay to ambush them in their own warrens before heading on.

But then Faendal had confided in her one of his local quarrels, and asked her to help sabotage a romance he was jealous of. So much for those good first appearances. The midnight clearing of the bandits in their hole provided a welcome catharsis, but the question still played on her mind. He had been a help to her, but this Bosmer man had turned out to be petty and conniving after all.

"Not yet. But I have spoils to sell, I will pass it on when I do."

So she did. But there was no need to pretend the stupid letter was from her better suitor. There was some satisfaction to be had from the fire in the woman's eyes when she told of the attempted deception, and the promise of a reward from her suitor himself rung even sweeter in Arith's ears.

The gold she spent on a last evening lesson from Faendal, before he caught word of her duplicity, and she left as night fell. No need to stay and witness Faendal's wrath, especially knowing his skill with the bow.

xxx Present

Farkas laughed, sat with her around the fire that burned in the west tower. The dark paint around his eyes crinkled into strange shapes with every chuckle. "Yes, you *do* have an interesting concept of 'honour'. But the man deserved it, no doubt."

Arith just nodded. "That's elves for you."

"And so you come to Whiterun, to slay giants and dragons with us."

"I came and delivered the message, so the Jarl should have sent troops to Riverwood by now. I helped fight the dragon because it seemed like the thing to do. Not that I could give the rest of them any useful advice. The thing nearly killed me, and two men of the guard weren't as lucky."

"Such is the way of battle. An honourable death isn't to be feared. You still slew it, without incentive. Much as you shot arrows into the giant we fought."

"Was I just supposed to walk on by?"

"No. But that might have drawn its attention to you."

Arith shook her head. It still felt odd to feel the air pass across her ears after having shaved her head, attempting to cross the border. It had been a poor disguise apparently, given her scar, and her eye. "I'd have run."

"And outpaced a giant? Difficult."

"Especially since dead ones move so fast."

Farkas looked at her quizzically, clearly not understanding.

"You haven't seen? Some of the guard dragged the body up to the town gate. They're singing your praises right now." She sounded bitter there, much like she felt. The guards did not know that their heroes were werewolves. "Ach, enough talk. Let me sleep another hour or two, and then we can make for Whiterun."

xxx Two day previously

Panting with exhaustion Arith slung her bow onto her back and cast another healing spell to wipe away the burns across her abdomen. Being doused with a jet of dragon's flame had been excruciating, but every one of the survivors had been burned to some degree, and managed to fight on regardless. After going toe to toe with the beast Irileth's Dunmer skin might have been all that saved her hide. And dark elf or no, it's claws and teeth had left their marks, at least until she found the time to cast a healing of her own.

But how could Arith not be euphoric? She had killed a dragon! Well, been involved, at least. She felt sorry for the two men eaten by it, but the thrill of the kill returned with unimaginable vigour. Wait until those Companion people heard about this. They wouldn't be giving her swords to ferry about now!

And as the stepped closer, the corpse began to burn. If fact, it didn't so much burn as melt away into the air, tinged in flame.

"Everybody, get back!"

The Dunmer's voice registered, but unlike the guards Arith couldn't do so. The powerful sight rooted her to the spot as wisps of magic began to seep from the creature's burning carcass, reaching out to her. She raised her hands instinctively to protect herself, but those tendrils flew past her warding arms and into her soul, the breeze becoming a gale until the torrent of power filled her completely. She forgot to breathe, her mind blank. This was better than the finest of wines, more intense than first learning to channel magic, more intimate than sex. This energy was *hers*, filling her entirely and bringing coherence to the 'word of power' that had imprinted itself in her mind just the day before, deep in the bandit crypt.

And then it faded, leaving her unsteady on her feet for a moment. Nothing remained of the dragon's corpse but a skeleton and some scraps of its scaly hide, each falling from the air with a thud.

"I can't believe it. You're... Dovahkiin."

xxx Present

Oh Gods, don't ask him any more, Arith thought. She stood among the Circle of Companions, the five most trusted and experienced of the group, and who apparently shared the curse of Lycanthropy. There was no pride in her stance for the accomplishments she had achieved in their name, and any anger in her mind had faded. What remained was a quiet resignation as what seemed to be their welcoming ceremony played out. There had been no acceptance on her part, or indication of any formalities until she had joined them in their rear courtyard.

"And would you raise your sword in her honour?"

To Arith's horror, Farkas replied again. "It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."

Here she had spend the last ten hours either ignoring him or placating him with idle tales of the recent past, wishing she had never gotten involved with beasts such as these people, and now here he was singing her praises. She had even put an arrow in his arm to ward him off when he had changed forms. Did he really *want* her to join them after all that?

"And would you raise a mug in her name?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in her stories."

Really? He honestly would? What kind of end to their all but silent mission was that?

"Then the judgement of this Circle is complete."

She let the old man finish his speech, and each of the others congratulated her as they left her to speak with the elder. Arith herself stood all but speechless, feigning gratitude as well as she could.

"Well girl, you're one of us now. I trust you won't disappoint."

Really, there was only one thing Arith could say now. "Is it true that the Companions are werewolves?"

Kodlak seemed surprised for a moment, before he sighed. He clearly saw through her flimsy act. "I see you've been allowed to know some secrets before your appointed time. No matter. Yes, it's true. Not every Companion though. Only members of the Circle share the blood of the beast. Some take to it more than others."

He sounded almost as weary as Arith felt after her ordeal, and her curiosity rose through her confusion. "What about you?"

"Well, I grow old. My mind turns to the horizon. To Sovngarde."

To the heavens? It was true, even for a self-made hunter like Arith mortality hung overhead like the axe that had almost taken hers. It was strange to hear this old man, clearly still so courageous and active, speak of his concern that his own favoured Divine might not accept his spirit because of his tainted blood. To Arith the thought of eternity upon Hircine's hunting grounds was a pleasant one, but it was not what Kodlak sought.

"You're... looking to cure yourself?" It was an almost incredulous question. This curse of theirs was self inflicted, surely.

"Yes, but it's no easy matter. But you don't need to share the worries of an old warrior. This day is to rejoice in your bravery! You will join us for that, I hope?"

While the thought of his condition chilled her far more than the Skyrim winds ever could, Arith actually found herself liking this man. He might be a beast, but he was certainly far more than just that. "...Yes. I will."

"Oh, and speak to Eorlund if you want a better weapon than... whatever that is."

Arith just stood there in shock as Kodlak strode past. She had finally learned to shoot, fairly well at that, and her arrows had helped fell a dragon, never mind clearing half of the Cairn with Falkas. She would not give up her bow for anything!

xxx

That night, after much food and even more mead, Arith sat upon her new bed within the basement walls of the Companions' building, Jorrvaskr, a mirror in her hands. She needed a bath, looking at the streaks of crypt dirt that had not fully been washed away by the morning rain. Perhaps she could ask that nice old cleaning lady whose name she hadn't managed to remember through all the drink.

Her slim, pearl-drop face contorted as she tried to remember, to no avail. Arith was not a slender woman, but high cheekbones and a small chin gave the illusion of it on her face; the rest of her was still muscled beneath strong curves, as any Nord woman should be.

It was her face that held her only scars too, the discoloured tear that fell down to her cheekbone from her dead eye, and re-appeared again to cut at an angle past her lips and off the side of her chin. Time was that the eye and upper scar would have been hidden beneath a long curtain of pale brown hair, but no more. Now there was just several days' growth of stubble upon her head, making her eyebrows look large.

One of the friendlier women there, Ria, watched from her own bed. "I did not think of you as the vain type, Shield Sister. No woman who cares so much would shave her head, surely?"

Arith had to turn to see her, but did so, smiling slightly through the alcohol and the slight mourning for her locks. "I did not choose to go bare headed. Call it a casualty of the battlefield."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But in any case, it does you no disservice. You make for a fearsome image, with axe or in drawing a bow, so Farkas tells it."

"It does not matter in either case with a helm on." Arith reached for said leather helm from the trunk beside her bed and pulled it on. "See?"

Across from the men's side of the large bunk room Torvar grinned drunkenly. "I can say you are fair enough either way, Sister, eye or no."

Ria looked over with a frown to scold him. "Enough of that. Now Farkas also says you have accepted your first full mission already. You seem rather eager."

Arith pulled the helm off her head and shrugged, leaning back on her hands. "The Jarl says I have been summoned away by the Greybeards, but if it so urgent then they could come to see me. I have some other business to finish and a housecarl to break in before I even think of taking on the mountain, so a good fight on your behalf will hardly make my delay any worse."

"A housecarl? What manner of reward did the Jarl give you!"

Arith grinned drunkenly. "Didn't you hear? I slew a dragon! Being named Thane of Whiterun was a formality after that!"

xxx

Of course, normally a Thane would have had a home of his own within the town, and while one had been made available for her in Whiterun, Arith did not have the money with which to purchase it herself. More than two thousand in gold stood between her and that potential home, so she considered swallowing her fear of the older Companions' natures to have been one of her better decisions to date. It gave her a bed of her own, at least, complete with roof above, which didn't cost ten of her gold coins a night.

What that did mean, however, was that a housecarl was an extravagance she didn't need. While the idea of a loyal servant had filled her with greedy ideas at first, she had no home for the woman to guard, and nor would the servant likely be welcome in the Companions' compound.

And yet what good was having a personal armswoman if one did not make use of her?

Up in Dragonsreach above Whiterun, Arith cast her eye across the long tables laid with food, and the Jarl's men and women who ate their generous breakfasts. Farengar, the Jarl's enchanter and mystic, sat apart from the others. Though he voiced his thoughts on politics of late, he spoke with little passion for them, and seemed not to care whether Arith joined in the conversation not. Commander Caius of the Whiterun guard ignored the talk, instead focusing on his meal. He likely had strong opinions on the subject of the Imperial and Stormcloak conflict, but thought better than to debate with the sage.

Beside him sat Lydia, the warrior woman still wearing her steel shell of armour at the table, content to humour the dour sage until she saw Arith approach. Since being appointed her housecarl Lydia had said barely a sentence to her, though not without reason. Arith could not have hidden her grin at receiving an armed retainer if she had tried, which she hadn't. The warrior woman had remained straightforward and deferential, as would probably have been expected of her for any real Thane, but when Arith had asked if she would do *anything* in her defence... Well, who could fault the woman for looking unnerved?

Now she stood and nodded. "Honour to you, my Thane."

Deferential to an extreme. After being chased around and spoken down to by some of the less amicable Companions, it was quite nice to be the one in charge of a conversation. Arith sat down at the table beside her. "So you say, but speak plainly 'my housecarl', what do you expect me to do as Thane?"

"The Jarl has recognised you as a persona of great importance in the hold. A hero. The title is less an obligation to you, but more a gift. After all, the guards will know to look the other way if they know who you are."

That was not what Arith had expected. "He has given me licence to, what? Flaunt the position?"

"Some do," was the matter-of-fact reply. "But your voice, experience and insight matter, to the Jarl and the hold as a whole. Being... Dovahkiin, will only add weight to your voice. Though I mean no jest," she quickly added, after a moments thought. "You are still free to come and go as you please. That I have been assigned to serve you rather than another, I expect the Jarl sees you doing more than sitting within these walls."

She thought herself a competent warrior then. Confident, and perhaps a little proud behind the veneer of respect. "So what will *you* do as my housecarl then, seeing as I have no home yet for your to protect."

"You do not intend to buy it?" Lydia asked, seemingly genuinely confused at the thought.

"I didn't say that."

"Well, as my Thane, I am sworn to your service. I will guard you, and all you own, with my life."

That was what Arith had wanted to hear. While travelling with Farkas had been uncomfortable in the extreme, she had enjoyed having a strong arm to watch her back, and to step up when an arrow or two was not enough to dissuade the Draugr. "Then I will leave you to rot in this lap of luxury no longer. Finish your meal and make ready to travel. There is a hunt I wish to undertake before having to meet with the Greybeards, and good works to weave for the Companions on the return trip."

Lydia nodded, though a cautious air fell over her. "Very well, I can be ready now. But be aware, if we are to be looking for a fight then keeping you safe will be all the harder."

Arith rose. "Do not worry, I do not intend to get either of us killed, and the cause is quite just. And finish your meal. I must speak to Proventus about claiming a bounty."

"Which you did without my protection, my Thane?"

"A few bandits, my housecarl." Arith smiled, and puffed out her chest a little. "Hardly a danger compared to a dragon."

xxx

Lunch had long since come and gone as Arith and Lydia trekked west, past the old fort which both suspected was infested with bandits or other undesirables. Arith had no desire to provoke them, and so it was that only an old henge finally brought them to a halt.

"You keep a good pace, my Thane," Lydia complemented, having made the march in her steel breastplate, and barely lacking in breath.

For her own part, Arith was eager for a break though she chose not to say as much, and instead took the opportunity to rest upon a piece of the old, fallen stone. "A little water and we can..."

Her voice was halted as she caught sight of the markings on one of the stone pedestals. They were the same markings as those in the crypt back by Riverwood, where she had uncovered that 'Words of Power'; the one the Dragon's soul had given unearthly force to.

"My Thane, what concerns you?"

"These aren't just rocks. It is another mechanism of some sort." She hurried over to a metal grate, set into the earth. Within lay a skeleton, its flesh long since having rotted away, and a large chest. Perhaps *another* of those words hid inside! "Lydia, help me move these pillars. Or rotate them! To match the carvings above!"

It took some effort, and trial and error with a pillar devoid of a guiding glyph, but at last the mechanism unlocked for them. Curiosity sent Arith down the small pit like a ferret after meat.

"Well I'll be. You have come across such a thing before."

Opening the chest, Arith felt her heart sink. There were no dragon runes awaiting her. Just trinkets and a playbook. "Not like this, no. But similar."

She flipped open the book idly. A stage play about battlemages or some such. Perhaps it would be worth a read later, and so thinking she stowed it in her pack.

"The book is valuable?" Lydia asked from above, but Arith shook her head and climbed the rickety wooden steps back up.

"No. A dull old play script."

"And yet you would carry it back?"

Arith gave her a pointed look. "The unwanted books of others made for my education. Something I aspire to, 'my housecarl'. Perhaps *you* could learn something from reading one once in a while."

Lydia stepped back, shock evident on her face. "I-I meant no disrespect, my Thane."

Uhg, this woman was either infuriatingly naive or too straightforward for her own good. "No, of course not. Forgive my outburst. You are right, and I have little interest or talent in spellcraft, but it is better read than left to moulder out here in the elements. If nothing else, it might help a pass a sleepless night."

And then genuine concern. "You have trouble sleeping?"

Why bother to hide it out there, with no-one but this blindly loyal fool to hear? "I would say not, but recently? Much has happened that might keep me awake. Enough of that. Let us forge on. I would like to find these bastards by nightfall, and take them swiftly."

So walk on they did.

"Forgive my asking, but who *are* you intent on slaying?"

Only then did Arith realise she had never actually explained. "Assassins from the deserts of Hammerfell. A long way to chase a lone woman, all the way to Skyrim."

"They seek to kill you?"

"No, not me. A pretty Redguard serving wench from The Bannered Mare, who is apparently more than meets the eyes.

Lydia looked uncertain. "I... see. An unusual coincidence, if I guess the story right."

"So say I. But she was fiery in her earnestness when I 'enquired' as to why she was being sought from outside the town's walls. Perhaps these 'assassins' will advise me otherwise when we find them, but one of their number tells me that battle is more likely. If they will attack us before even asking our names, then they will have been worth hunting regardless. And I am hoping this supposed noblewoman in barmaiden's clothing will be able to pay well to be free of them."

She stopped as she saw smoke from a large fire over one of the heathered hummocks, and a pair of herd mammoths grazing while their masters sat. "Look ahead. Giants. "

Lydia frowned. "Let us circle around the path. I do not relish the idea of fighting one, never mind a herding camp."

"Agreed."

xxx

Despite the minor detour the pair reached the Swindler's Den before sundown. A single Nord man stood outside, picking at a large wedge of cheese that sat on a barrel in the entrance.

Lydia immediately stated the obvious. "Look, a cave. And only one guard? I wonder what's inside."

"Our quarry, if my incarcerated informant spoke true." So saying, her bow down by her side, Arith strode on into view.

"Wait! He is also no Redguard man, and he is armed!"

Arith looked back, having to turn her head past her bad right side to look at Lydia properly. "As are we. Likely the foreigners have enlisted local help to track their woman? In any case, if he is not willing to talk, then we know where we stand with these people. You will leap to my defence, will you not?"

"As I am sworn to, my Thane."

"Then let us greet..."

The scruffy man gave her no chance to finish as they reached the mouth of the cave. He pulled his axe from the floor, and charged. "You shouldn't have come here, little girls!"

True, he was a big man, and his axe head met Arith's leather jerkin with a glancing blow before she could put an arrow into his chest. But the once Lydia's blade was drawn the fight was already over, and she cut the injured man down before he could swing again, embedding her sword deep into his side.

His body had not even hit the floor when Lydia had her hands on Arith's bruised shoulder, her voice urgent. "My Thane! Are you wounded?"

Arith was a little taken aback, not to mention shaken after being attacked so suddenly. The man had not even given her a chance to speak to him. "I am... fine, I think. If sore. He did not even break my armour."

She set her bow aside and channelled what little magic she was skilled with to clear the ache and inevitable bruise. "No need for concern." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "He was swifter on his feet than he looked. Is it a wonder I prefer to strike first?"

Lydia merely stared, something entirely different apparently on her mind. "You *do* know spellcraft. If you don't mind my asking, why suggest otherwise back at the stones."

That was a difficult question to answer sensibly. "Anyone can learn some basics, Lydia. Restoration is the only sphere of spellcraft I have actually attempted to practice. The rest... I wouldn't advise you trust any potion I might make. And I have no desire to light myself afire to learn battle-magery. I would rather try and master this bow of mine."

xxx

With the fight having taken only moments, and no sign of reinforcements or relief arriving from within, Arith and Lydia decided to wait until nightfall to strike inwards, and made use of the man's unfinished dinner before creeping inside.

The tunnel soon opened up into the Den proper, where two more unkempt Nord men talked by candlelight. Arith crept forward to try and listen in, her bow already drawn taught.

"I'm not sure I like these Alik'r warriors hiding out here. They seem like trouble."

"Keep it to yourself, they're not paying us to talk. They'll be gone as soon as they've found who they've been looking for..."

Sooner than that, Arith thought to herself, and she loosed her iron tipped arrow into the side of the nearest man - the one with a bow of his own on his back. He crumpled instantly, his chest pierced from the back, and though his partner in crime drew his sword and pulled on his shield, Arith already had a second arrow trained on him. Whether the man had seen her from the dark cavern-mouth she did not know, but her arrow struck true, embedding itself in his shoulder.

Clearly panicked by the unseen archer the bandit fled for the passage further in to escape the arrows, and Arith's third shot missed him, sending an unfortunate wicker basket catapulting through the air.

One last arrow caught him in the small of his back before he disappeared. Enough to kill him. Arith straightened up, listened for more approaching feet after those cries of pain, and when there were none she went to survey the bodies.

Lydia followed, taking in the scene. "You know, though lacking an eye you make for a keen shot, my Thane."

"Is it really necessary to use that title here? And thank you. The elf was a good teacher if nothing else. That he remarked likewise is why my axe and shield remain at my hips. Wolves and a deer were my first practice hunts, and they ran faster than this one."

The cave ran deeper, and two bandits further in fell the same way; the first killed as much by the shock of the arrow entering his waist as from the damage itself, his comrade with a shot through the back when he rushed over to him. Fool.

The rough dining quarters further in were a different proposition entirely. At least four more of these wilderness bandits milled around the tables, with a large wiry woman on a level above, overlooking their evening drinks. And there were orcs, Orsimer, among them

Arith crept back down the tunnel, where Lydia had waited, and explained the situation. "These we can't take by surprise. Not all. I will shoot twice, try and make as many kills before they can arm and attack in return. After my second arrow, wade in and I will follow you into the melee."

Lydia nodded. "Then stay at my back, and I will stay at yours, my Thane."

"... A hard fight or not, you make it sound so grave."

The plan worked well to start, Arith's arrow felling one Orsimer outright, while the human archer among them took an arrow to the head, but one that didn't fully penetrate her skull. Lydia finished the job before the woman - were more than half these drinking bandits women? - could return fire. After that Arith joined the fray, and with a guttural shout, fuelled by the soul of a mighty dragon, she staggered the fighters that came to meet her and her housecarl, to make short work of them. The last woman, wearing not leathers but a robe, funnelled her hands to shower them both with arcane frost, but to Nord women like Lydia and Arith the cold was little impediment, and they slew her in short order.

What Arith had not seen, as her blind right side was to the raised edge, was that the woman above had not remained there, but leaped down and drawn the large dagger at her hip.

"My Thane, watch yourself!"

Lydia's warning came only as the blade dug through the seams in Arith's jerkin, and buried itself to the hilt in her side. Arith pulled away, staggering back as Lydia took up the fight for her. She dropped her shield and pressed a healing hand into the agonizing wound, sealing it before she could bleed too much, but the tough bandit woman sought to get around Lydia and finish her off before she could heal herself properly.

Arith fended her away with her axe long enough that Lydia could kill the relentless woman properly.

"Lydia, watch the tunnels a moment. I need to concentrate."

Breathless and pale Lydia did so. "Forgive my eyes for being distracted felling the mage, my Thane. Is your magic potent enough to keep you hale until I can get you to a healer?"

"My magic will be more than sufficient. If only I knew enough to work it faster." She gasped a little as the muscle and skin knitted back together beneath the bloodstained leather. "I might even have magicka enough left in me to heal your own scratches."

"I am in no poor shape, my Thane. If it will aid you, do not spare the energy for me."

Arith sighed. "As you wish. It will replenish soon enough, but we still have not found our assassins. Let us go, while the energy of battle still sings in my veins."

The tunnel forward led around into a kitchen and sleeping chamber, blessedly empty of more enemies. The tunnel then curved around and up above their battleground prior, before sloping down into a half flooded straight with the sound of falling water ahead.

"Great." Arith sighed, thoroughly unimpressed with this turn of events. "Well, I have not got here to be turned around by water." She pulled off her pack and left it lying in the tunnel entrance. "I can cook my clothing along with these highwaymens' salmon on the way back."

Lydia clearly didn't think much of the idea, but followed suit without complaint or prompt. "Lead on then, and I will follow."

The freezing water was waist deep as they waded through, their shields and Arith's bow held aloft to keep dry. Above them yet another cavern opened up, where the water filled the tunnel from above, and it was as they passed under the falls that they heard the voice.

"Stay your hands, warriors. You have proven your skill in combat. Let us talk a moment, and no-one else needs to die. I think we can all profit from the situation in which we find ourselves."

Looking up Arith saw the speaker to be a Redgaurd man. Hopefully the one she intended to kill. At least he could be reasonable and parlay first, unlike those slaughter-hungry bandits. And after all this, the thought of profit beyond the spoils of battle was appealing. Now if only her lower half wasn't submerged in ice-cold hill water.

"Tell me then, "Arith replied from the underground stream, "why do you hunt Saadia?"

The story he told painted the hiding noblewoman in a very different light. Fleeing her house after betraying it to the local expansionist regime. The very one Saadia had claimed these men to be from. If their side was to be believed, they intended to drag her back to Hammerfell, and have her tried her for treason.

But which side to believe? In Arith's mind camping up with these local thugs was hardly the course of a group that wanted justice, never mind paying them for the privilege of such secrecy. Foreigners or not, there were other, less dubious places to camp if they were refused entrance into Whiterun. The problem was that the route up to these men meant running the gauntlet to a wooden, water-slicked ramp out of the flooded tunnel, and no doubt these men would be well armed to receive them.

"No," she replied, after a moment's thought. A moment in which this man's eyes remained firmly locked on her and her guardswoman. It was standing up for herself and for others that had cost her an eye, and if the scars were to forever define her face then her moral instincts would define her foes. "Somehow I don't believe you bring 'justice' from within a cave of murderous thugs. I was trusted to kill you, and so I will."

But to her surprise, the man talked on, mocking.

"Of course. Did she appeal to your honour? Your greed? A more... base need perhaps. I doesn't matter. If that's the way you want to play it, we will."

With that said the rest of the Redguard foreigners finally appeared, drawing swords and running to the wooden ramp.

"Lydia beside me!" And with that Arith *charged* through the water and up the ramp, a Nord war cry leaping from the depths of her chest. Outnumbered or not, the sight and the *sound* of these two woman barrelling towards them, weapons drawn, was enough to send several of the assassins skidding to a halt on the wet wood, and more fleeing back into the depths of the chamber. Arith's target was clear. Saadia had said that without their leader this band would not have the stomach to finish the job, and so she headed right for the well spoken man at the side of the cave, a powerful swing of her axe breaking through the guard of his twinned scimitars.

The man fought well, and proved resilient beyond measure despite having no sure way to defend himself from Arith's blows, but finally he fell, and she turned to join Lydia in fending off a full half dozen men. The housecarl was bleeding freely from her arms and left temple, but she had not fallen yet, and Arith barrelled into the crowd to take her own share of punishment, and claim another three kills.

The fight won, the pair slumped down against the cavern wall, exhausted from both pain and exertion.

Arith chuckled despite her injuries - scimitar cuts across her arms and legs abounded - but still high on the adrenaline. "Give me a minute, and I will try to stop your bleeding."

"I have suffered worse, my Thane. As did you, only minutes ago. You fought well, if recklessly. Had we not scared them with our charge they would certainly have overwhelmed us. A fight more educational than most."

"Indeed. Dispatching the leader before any of them had the wits to join him... that was the luck of the Divines. Now, hold still and let me work my magics."

xxx

With night now well upon them the thought of moving on galled Arith. Sitting in front of the fire and the roasting fish she still felt the chill of that wretched underground river in her hardened Northlander bones. Both her own tough breeches and Lydia's armoured leggings hung by the fire to try, no doubt to smell of cooked salmon once they were dry.

Rather than dwell on either discomfort Arith spent her time surveying their spoils: Several suits of hide that should both sell well despite the bloodstains, an old dwarven - or Dwemer, or 'Deep Elf', depending on who wrote the book - artefact, and a leather helm that held some manner of enchantment Arith hoped to rip from it back in Whiterun, to add to her own limited arcane repertoire. More interesting was the bow Arith had already taken for her own, the sturdier Orsimer weapon had replaced her own as soon as she'd laid eyes on it.

Across the fire Lydia counted their coin. After the way she had fought, and her general air of willing subordination, Arith had no fear that the woman would pocket any, and was even thinking of splitting her a fair share.

"One hundred and seventy four in gold, all told. Mostly from their leader."

"Good. That will cover the money spent on finding this place, and then some. With the hides as well, this could have been worse." Pulling her pack over to the blanket she sat upon, she began to re-pack her belongings to fit as many of those hides as she could.

"You are thinking to cart all of these... back... My Thane? Are those *bones*?"

Indeed, the several gargantuan vertebrae Arith had removed would have to be wrapped around. "Yes? My share from the dragon at the western tower."

"And you have been carrying them all this time?"

"I was not about to leave them there. These will be valuable to the right armour smith."

Lydia just looked in awe as Arith continued her packing. "And the Warmaiden's wouldn't take them?"

"No. Said that doing so would bankrupt her, when none in Whitehaven would actually pay for such an extravagance. The dragonhide I may try and cure myself, though I suspect it will not take to treating like deer or wolf skin."

She looked up with a tired, crooked smile. "Enjoy your own light pack while you can, Lydia. I intend to make the most of our assault on Brittleshin Pass before returning to Whitehaven."

"My Thane, you intend to join in battle again so soon without seeing a healer?"

This again? "Amateur though they may be my magics have seen us both healthy. And this attack is on behalf of the Companions. You don't doubt their need, do you?"

"I... no, as long as you are fit for it."

"Believe me, if it looks as though we are outmatched, I will be the first to flee. And I expect to hear you hot on my heels."

xxx

Beneath her blanket of warm wolfskin, Arith lay awake listening to the sounds of the underground waterfall in the distance, and Lydia's soft breathing. Though exhausted, sleep seemed long in coming to them both.

At least Arith had an excuse. Even the attack tomorrow stood secondary in her mind when compared to the looming summons of the Greybeards. What on earth would they have to say to her? And more worryingly, what might they *ask* of her? What might they *expect*?

"My Thane, may I ask..?"

What on earth could be on her mind? "Go on."

"Did you notice the clothes these Redguard men wore?"

Yes. In fact she had. "Hammerfell garb, yes. Are you concerned that they might have told the truth?"

"... I do not know. Most every Redguard I have see come to Skyrim has worn something similar, but... It leads me to be less than certain. We were never hospitable to foreigners."

"So they hide away in a cave of criminals?"

Lydia sighed. "I know. I am being foolish, perhaps. Pay it no mind."

Arith was not unwilling to consider those concerns though. "If we have saved an innocent noble's life, then we have done the right thing, and she will hopefully be unrestrained in her gratitude. If she is a fugitive, then she threw away her standing and home to serve mead to us uncouth Nords, and to suffer Skyrim's chill for the rest of her days, and will hopefully pay well for that to be the worst of it. Either way, we will likely not know the truth in the end."

"Then I will trust that we have done what is right. Thank you, my Thane."

"And the Nine Divines forbid you call me by name, even in a cave."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

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(c) Nutzoide 2012


	2. A Strained Pilgrimage

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 2: A Strained Pilgrimage

Brittleshin Pass was a great anticlimax after the furious battle within the Swindler's Den. The pass had no troops or guard save for the abominable re-animated bones that prowled around, all but blindly through the tunnels. Lydia did not need to draw her weapon against them even once, a single arrow from beyond their unnatural view was enough to pull them apart, and so break the enchantments that kept them mobile.

The Necromancer was another matter, warded against harm so that even Arith's first silent arrow, embedding itself in the man's skull, would not kill him. He responded with lances of ice, first thrown at Arith but turning to Lydia when she charged to the fore.

He fell shortly, leaving behind his grisly magical experiments.

"I have never seen anything like this," Lydia had exclaimed at the unwholesome sights around them. She let her weapon fall from her fingers, to pull a two foot icicle from her arm. Two others had pierced her chest and leg. It took a moment for Arith to marvel at the woman's stamina, not to mention her tolerance for pain, before her wits returned enough to think of healing the hardy warrior.

The pair returned to Whiterun only a few tomes and spoils heavier for having made the unexpectedly brief detour. That they had also been accosted on the way back was of little consequence, and Arith intended to keep it that way.

"Lydia, if you would, please do not mention the Khajit. I will explain that later. For now I have hide and leather to sell." She handed her housecarl a small purse. "Here is your share of the gold. I will meet you again tomorrow, if you care to return to the Jarl's hall."

Lydia however shook her head. "The gold is yours, my Thane. Better to furnish yourself with a home that I may then guard for you, perhaps? And I would meet this noble Redguard woman whose freedom we have maintained."

Refusal was not something Arith had been prepared for. "Very well then. You will have the pleasure of watching me tan and cut the sabre-tooth hides for sale then, just as you watched me skin the beasts."

And Lydia did just that. The day was still young, but Lydia spent all of it watching or assisting as Arith plied her father's old trade, tanning the huge skins and then cutting them from memory so that little work remained to stitch them into shirts or have them treated to make armours. Adrianne of the Warmaiden's seemed content to let them work if it gave her good articles to sell on once finished.

Arith worked until the armour smith closed her shop, Lydia acting as a housecarl apparently should and taking errands to provide food throughout the day. Then, once evening fell, came the job of giving Saadia her good news.

Within her room at The Bannered Mare the pretty foreigner seemed not so much relieved as weary. Though her words were one of gratitude, her voice sounded flat and tired. "At last. I can rest safely. You have done me a great service, warrior. I cannot thank you enough."

She stood to open her dresser, and retrieve a purse from it. A heavy one. "Take this as reward. I managed to sneak some of my wealth out of Hammerfell when I left. It's the least I can do. For now I will maintain my ruse here. You will always be welcome at The Bannered Mare."

And that, it seemed, was that. There had to be four or five hundred gold in that little pouch as Arith weighed it in her hand; a more than suitable payment for the work, but Arith felt a little disappointment that there was no talk of future plans or foreign noble's insights. Purely business for a woman who, regardless of the truth, had probably had enough.

"Then we will be on our way. Stay safe, Saadia."

xxx

Back in the dusk outside, Lydia, silent through the meeting, spoke up. "So what were your thoughts?"

Arith didn't know, and frankly didn't care now. The deal was done, and while dangerous, had been paid for. "My thoughts now are of my bed, and resting my arms after a day of leather work. Do you intend to follow me to Jorrvaskr and sleep in one of the Companions' beds?"

"Let us see if they try to throw me out."

Inside it seemed that several of the mercenary Companions had been awaiting her return, and Arith found Farkas among them to report on her success.

"I have taken care of your problem. The mage is as dead as his minions."

"As I have already received word, and the client is satisfied. Profitable work, if that's what you were after." Another small purse was handed Arith's way. "You have done well for yourself whelp, and for the companions."

Coming from that guttural voice, and knowing what she knew, that almost sounded threatening. "I... Good. Farkas, I will have to take my leave. You heard the Greybeard summons, I assume? Before."

"We all did. That was for you, Shield Sister?" When Arith nodded Farkas gave a deep chuckle. "Then best not keep them waiting. Stay here tonight, and we will see you off come sun-rise."

"That was my intent. Will there be a problem if my housecarl stays?"

"Housecarl?" Farkas eyes Lydia warily. "Not my place to say. Njada might have something to say about it."

Thankfully, she didn't. One unfriendly quip from her bed was all Njada said before rolling over to sleep. It was a shame she was such a female dog. By reputation Njada was good with both a blade and an expert at shield fighting, and Arith guessed there was much she and the warrior woman could teach each other.

Instead Arith just took to her bed and bid Lydia take one opposite.

She wasn't ready to sleep though. Her mind went back to the Khajit woman who had come at them blades drawn, and she unfolded the note they had taken from the dead feline woman's pockets.

'As instructed, you are to eliminate Arith 'Half-Blind' by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed - Somebody wants this poor fool dead.

'We have already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option.

'~ Astrid.'

Whoever Astrid was, he or she must have been very sure of their own security, because no-one sending out assassins should be stupid enough to ever leave a signature.

From the fourth bed in the women's side of the room, Ria watched with youthful interest. "What is it you have there, Arith? A plot or an admirer?"

Arith folded the letter and tucked it away again, before undressing for bed. "Neither, I hope."

xxx

"A Soul Trap? Some may call it 'evil', but it is a necessity for any enchanter. There is no actually suffering involved, beyond that which parts the soul from its moral body."

The morning was still young at the Dragonsreach above Whiterun proper, and dour voiced Farengar Secret-Fire, the Jarl's mystic, joined Arith at his enchanting table. The sword that lay there was already crumbling away, Arith's magic dissecting it as it had the enchanted helm only minutes before, and imprinting the lines of its spell into her arcane psudoconscious.

Farengar had already given permission for Arith to practice at his tables, but neither one had actually expected her to do so. At least not so soon.

Behind them Lydia watched, mildly curious. "For a woman who claims so little skill at magic, you seem both capable and intent on improving your mastery of it, my Thane."

"Using my title is not licence to talk back, Lydia. My interest in Magicka may be more academic than practical, but I have been all but self-taught so far. And the very idea of a soul trap scares me. But if this weapon could fill a soul gem with its killing blow then so could my axe, and if that means I need not learn the spell myself..."

Farengar finished her justification for her. "Those you slay would no doubt be deserving of such an end, I suspect? I am no master of the art, my specialities lie elsewhere, but I can guide you in your first steps."

Two hours and several emptied soul gems later Arith had two new enchanted weapons to sell to replace the items she had destroyed in learning their properties. And now her axe might fill future gems, to fuel further enchantments to come.

While of little use to herself still, Magickal equipment could fetch a fine price among wealthy treasure hunters and mercenaries.

"Some decent enchantments." Farengar said after the work was done. "But keep studying, you have only scratched the surface." It was critical, and faintly condescending, but then he was likely used to the sort of work that appeared from the mage's college in Winterhold.

Lydia, with no knowledge of Magic to sharpen her opinions, was more complementary, ignoring Farengar. "If it is half as worthy as her healing, that weapon will do well for her."

"Oh, you practice restoration as well? I have several more advanced spells than simple healing that I can sell, if you plan to sell those other items? They will make for good examples to other students."

Arith glared with her good eye and said nothing, but bought the spells. A faster healing magic would be worth learning.

xxx

The sky proved uncaring to their plans, for no sooner had they left Dragonsreach the sky opened over Whiterun. Dark clouds rolled across as far as the eyes could see, so there was no sense in delaying their journey. With oil slicked cloaks Arith set out, Lydia two paces behind at all times.

Thankfully the day, while miserable, chose not to torment them further, and not a single man, woman or creature accosted them save a lowly, wretched skeever. Arith felled the oversized rat-beast with a single swing of her axe, not even seeing fit to risk breaking an arrow for the kill.

However, as she did the new enchantment on her blade cracked like thunder, and Arith held the weapon at arms reach as a purple storm of soul energy erupted from the skeever and flooded into Arith's pack, no doubt already bound to the closest empty soul gem within. Lydia approached cautiously, while Arith gawped at her weapon.

"That," she said with reverence in her voice, "was not what I expected. I think I may have overstepped my mark."

"A petty soul, no doubt," Lydia agreed, "but surely useful."

Arith shook her awe, along with a fair amount of rainwater, from herself. "True, but more judicious use of it might be in order."

xxx

That use came when they stopped for the evening. With the rain still falling they sought shelter in a cave, only to spy a pair of trolls who had done the same. The ugly brutes were strong, but not smart enough to find their attackers before Arith had put three arrows into the closest one, after which axe, sword and shield were enough to wear them down, healing blood or not.

Were it not for the collection of skulls that lined the inside of the cave, or the pair of Bosmer elves who lay dead by their fire, it might have looked homely.

"Poor fools. Scavengers or bandits by the look of it," Lydia commented as they dragged the trolls out to send down the steep, rocky hillside below. "Hardly prepared to fend off trolls."

Arith had more practical things on her mind. "Strip them before we take them out too. They have no need of modesty now."

"And we have need of the gold? You could have bought Breezehome with the Redguard's reward money and those enchanted daggers, I am sure."

That was true, before buying those spells she'd had more than enough to buy the house. "Lydia, truth be told, with a bed given by the Companions I am not in need of a house in Whiterun. And if I am to be some mythical Dovahkiin I doubt I shall get to stay there even so. But if such an opportunity came elsewhere, a safe place to sleep in another town might be worth having, if the opportunity arose."

"I... see."

Lydia did join her in stripping the elven pair, before sending the bodies down the cliff to join the dead trolls. She clearly wasn't happy about it, or about what Arith had just told her. But she did so, all the same.

The silence wasn't pleasant though. Especially not when the vista before them was almost a work of art, tainted by the unspoken resentment in Lydia's eyes.

"Look, the town is beautiful under the sunset."

Lydia did give it a brief, longing glance before turning back inside. "Yes. This place was once called Greywinter Watch. It was a lookout over the north-eastern approach."

xxx

To Arith's relief the morning found Lydia in recovered spirits, if still quiet, and breakfast was brief. There were still two days of trek to cover.

The weather had also recovered, making the hike to the old Valtheim Towers pleasant after a full day of walking through the freezing northern rain. Deer frolicked on the mountainside, birds sang in the trees - even a crazy hobo witch came out to play, to put herself out of her own misery at the hands of Lydia's sword.

"That... was unsettling. Can we at least move on quickly, before that dark necromancy taints us further."

"We will, just one moment."

"Ugh, my Thane, must you strip everyone we slay naked! This is mercenary to an indecent level."

Arith wrapped up the enchanted robe and left the witch by her unpleasant standing stone. "For what it is worth, Lydia, you have my apologies. But she can feed the trees and the foxes just as well bare."

"It would not surprise me if you lost your eye because of such judgement."

Arith let that barb stew for a moment. "No. But losing it did impress upon me how much honour is in one's own eyes, and not as unbending as jarls, families, or priests would have me believe. The dead have no more cares, but I have been caught unprepared too often of late and will take any aid they offer in death."

They resumed their slow march, Arith making sure not to let the distance they walked lengthen. "If I besmirch your honour then you are free to return to Whiterun, but I am glad for your company as much as for your sword-arm, Lydia. I would not act as I do if I felt it 'unjust'."

"And the dead deserve no dignity?"

"Do they require it? Would they not also object to their moulding away back to the earth, or being burnt to ash upon a pyre? If Arkay saw fit to tell me otherwise, I would heed him, but he does not."

"Or perhaps his signs have already come, if your life has been tumultuous. And of the Divines who *do* you revere? What *is* sacred to you, Arith?"

Arith looked ahead, wondering what to say, but such thoughts did not last long as they finally saw the Valtheim Towers. "I am glad you finally use my name, my friend, and I would tell you. But first, are the Towers not supposed to be old and un-kept now?"

"Yes, they were abandoned." It was then Lydia saw what Arith had already noticed. Several men, specks against the sky, paced along the bridge across the White River.

"A new guard, do you suppose?" Arith asked, "or yet more bandits?"

Lydia frowned. "This road is not so heavily patrolled in these times. Let us hope for the former, and expect the latter."

It was indeed a fight they met at the Towers, the watch setting upon them and rousing her gang to take out their prey quickly. Instead Arith shot her dead, and took her axe to the barbarian man who burst from within, ripping his soul from his body with her weapon before following Lydia inside. The housecarl held the rout up to the bridge, and from the rickety wooden stairs outside Arith harassed them further, putting arrows past them until they both fell.

Arith was not the only archer left though, and from the second tower a shot pierced her arm that jerked her muscles in spasms enough to drop her ready arrow. The wound she could heal, but that shock was magical! She and Lydia ran across the bridge to kill that last, trapped aggressor, but not before they had both felt the sting of those electrically charged arrows again.

The man himself put up little fight, and was dead before Arith had scaled the second tower. "So," Lydia asked, standing over the dead man, "are we to take their clothes too?"

"Do they deserve better after attacking us?"

"I will not take issue, for now."

"And I do not ask you to carry them. One of them wore an iron rams-horn helm though. It would suit you well, I think."

Lydia hissed as Arith pulled the arrow from her thigh. "And I think this man's bow would likewise suit you. That shock to my leg all but toppled me into the river."

xxx

Though she had said it partly in jest, the helm did look quite striking and fearsome with Lydia's chiselled jaw. Any bandit who ran out to meet that would surely be given second thoughts. But then if the two of them surviving all six brigands was not enough, and even more in the battle against the Alik'r, then there was no hope for her attackers regardless.

After Arith had gathered her spoils the pair made the most of the bandits' camp fire and ate an early lunch. "You were going to tell me of the Gods, Arith. Of what you *do* hold dear?"

Yes, of course she was. "Well, a time ago I would have said family, comfort and a good hunt were my vices. Now... now I am not as sure as I once was. I aspired to the hunt, but rarely took part myself. Until I became the hunted. If I have surviving family I would not know where to find them. Mead, food, and a fire, though; those I can still enjoy."

"Of the Divines..." She drew a long breath. "I would visit the temple to Mara in Riften as a girl, with my Mother. Stendarr appealed in a way as well, offering mercy and righteousness is equal measure. That suited my sensibilities, and fitted the old tales of heroism I would be told."

"Mine as well. Delivering a swift blade, and knowing when to set it aside; it was those teaching that took me into the Whiterun guards."

"Which brought you here, travelling with a degenerate Thane and clearing the White River Road of banditry." Arith put a smile on her lips. "The Nine have an interesting sense of humour sometimes, don't they?"

"That they do, at times."

xxx

The air cleared again, at least in part, the trek alongside the White River was quiet but pleasant, even going so far as to lack rabid necromancers. Reaching the fork of the White and Black rivers - Arith had to wonder if the Septim's cartographers had really been all that literate - their road turned south. By the end of their journey they would have walked around more than half of The Throat of the World's base (largest and highest mountain both in Skyrim and the whole of Tamriel), but that route had been chosen as quicker and potentially less dangerous than taking the south side, and braving both the snowy foothills and a return to the burnt out remains of Helgen. The fact that the road signs also pointed this way to Ivarstead helped.

The mages of Fort Amol proved frosty, so the pair gave their compound a wide berth, and the only souls they met for the entire day were a troop of Imperial soldiers with their Stormcloak prisoner, and some starved wolves who did not survive their own ambush.

At the very same bridge they encountered the wolves, however, Arith realised she had made a grave mistake. She looked at the map in her hands, before closing her eyes and letting out a groan of despair.

"That is not a road! It's a river! We'll have to travel *around* this side if the foothills!"

Lydia seemed unperturbed. "We could try and follow the river up, if the banks are not too wild."

Indeed, they weren't, but their foray was cut short when they met the cliff from where the water poured from the base of the mountain. Dejected, Arith led her housecarl back to the road, to continue on for an hour's detour before they could even begin to climb into the foothills towards Ivarstead.

xxx

Night fell as they finally found a steep dirt road that would lead them up, miles farther south than Arith had hoped, but any path now was better than taking the long road around, halfway to Riften and back.

But an hour's hard climb and the vanishing light made for difficult going, even for Lydia with her surfeit of stamina. "My Thane, we should stop soon for the night. Climbing like this in the dark is unwise."

"Yes, you are right," Arith puffed. "At the first good shelter we find, then."

However, the sound of another waterfall came before the shelter did, and the pair found their road ending at another river, rock walls on two sides and the river down on the third. "What..? But... the map..."

Lydia shook her head, but did not comment. Instead she uncorked the empty bottles of mead they had drank for supper, and headed for the falls. "Sit and rest, Arith. Check your map and I will get us some water."

The dirt road was poorly marked, but it looked as though they should have turned to make an even harder climb some half an hour back. No doubt that track had become overgrown, or they had missed it in the dark.

Where their road *had* led was an old Dwemer run called the Darkwater pass, at it took little searching to find the heavy door that led into the mountains.

"The map doesn't show where it comes out," Arith explained, scouring her parchment for some sign to the contrary, "but if nothing else we might find shelter for the night in there."

xxx

Rest would not be had so easily, and what they did find was water, knee deep in the entrance passage. Arith stared at it long and hard before forging in. "If we have to light a fire again, so be it. Better that than sleep under the stars and wake in the rain again."

Lydia was clearly unhappy with the prospect, but either had nothing else to suggest, or was too tired to argue. "Lead on then."

Sounds up ahead made them pause before they were even halfway in. A raspy tongue, clucking to itself as its hunched and hairless owner scrabbled around in the dirt. Falmer were a myth to those outside Skyrim, and to many within its boundaries as well, but those who stepped outside the safety of town likely knew someone who had encountered the retrograde and degenerate ancestors of the Snow Elves. More bestial even than Orsimer, Khajit, or Argonian, what they lacked in animal features they made up for in base aggression and simple-mindedness.

Stories said that the Dwemer had kept them as chattel, poisoning them to blindness and making them hardy slaves. Now free of those masters, the Falmer skulked underground, living like animals, but for the crude swords, bows and magic they used to kill their prey.

"Where there is one," Arith whispered, "there will be more. What do you say?"

"I still have strength enough for a fight if there is a fire to welcome me afterwards. And it would be a service to put these wretches out of their misery."

While wretched, the Falmer proved tough, and Arith had to join Lydia in melee after her first two electrically charged arrows stuck in its hide. I didn't help that, though blind, the Falmer could fight well enough by sound alone, and their shields proved a godsend in fending off the creature's wild sword swings.

Still, it died in time, and the pair pressed on up. The upper chamber was also flooded, with more Falmer to dispatch, but with them were a trio of Chaurus - four foot crustaceans that the Falmer would breed for their poisons. And with two Falmer to fight alongside those beasts, Arith soon found the Falmer's blades burned with that self same poison as they cut.

Outnumbered, and with Lydia knocked to her knees from both exhaustion and the pain of those cuts, Arith did the only thing she could think of. She Shouted.

"FUS!"

The shockwave from that Dragon Shout knocked the nearest Falmer off his feet, and left the rest staggered enough for Arith to recover herself. With a primal battle cry she swung her axe at the lot of them. Before finishing the Falmer lying at her feet and ripping its soul from its body in the process.

The other Falmer fled in terror, while the Chaurus backed away, giving Lydia time to regain her feet, and take up the fight again. With the enemy frightened and on the defensive they had little chance against Arith and Lydia now, despite their numbers.

It had not been an easy victory though, and Arith got to try out her new healing spell to clear their cuts and pincer marks, and thankfully ease the sting of the irritant poison.

Lydia looked down at the dead bodied beneath the water, and worked her arms to put more feeling back into them after her dunk. "You know, with magic like that, I am glad that I am fighting *for* you, my Thane. That did not go as I had planned."

"No. Perhaps I should have expected Falmer to have pets, but that venom is more dangerous than their blades, in causing pain. We should be more cautious."

Thankfully there were no more Chaurus to be found in the flooded crypt, for that was what the level was. Arith found several hundred gold among the broken urns and a storage chest the Falmer had filled, swelling her purses further, and she received no complaint from Lydia this time. Perhaps the bodied of the Falmer and the long dead Dwemer held no place in her heart. Or perhaps she was glad that Arith left the bodies with the stinking loincloths that passed for their clothing.

The hewn corridors continued up, and out of the water at last, leading to a simple set of stone chambers with the sounds of more Falmer within. Arith motioned for Lydia to say behind while she crept up, her bow drawn. The main chamber was bare save for a grate in the floor, and only one Falmer stalked the side-room. From the cover of a pillar Arith fired, sticking the Falmer hard and causing him to cast a shower of frost in her direction in reflex.

Safely behind her cover Arith shot again before slinging her bow onto her back, and motioning Lydia up. Drawn out by the arrows the Falkmer mage was hit by their twinned charge, and while resilient their shields rapping at his face kept his spell-casting brief, and his life short. The ambush that followed from within the Mage's chamber was a formality after that. While the Falmer caught them off guard in dropping from the ceiling, neither one could take either Lydia or Arith in a straight up fight, despite the venom on heir blades.

"Another fight?" Came a voice from below the grate, and once they were done Lydia looked down to see an Argonian man locked below. He looked up briefly, revealing his lizard-man face, but did not speak, and instead sat back down in his hole, resigned to his fate.

Arith meanwhile was drawn into the Falmer mage's camber by the rough enchanting table there, complete with a book welded to it with wax from the now unlit candles. The Falmer could not read with their sightless eyes, so it must have been a Dwemer enchanting tome. She pried it from its wax bed and began to flip through it.

"Arith? There is an Argonian down here. We should try and find a way to him."

Arith sighed and put down the book. As much as she disliked Argonians - beast-people in general in fact - she couldn't in good conscience leave him to starve. And if they were to find shelter and rest in this place they would need to clear out the Falmer properly.

"Stay put, scale-face. We will look for the way down."

The only exit however still led up, and Arith almost walked right into a tripwire before catching herself, and cutting it from arm's reach with her axe. That proved not to be cautious enough, as the vast sprung claw of metal that it triggered almost took her arm off.

"... That seems a little extreme for Falmer."

"Perhaps they know to avoid it as a matter of course?"

Three more Falmer, archers this time, patrolled a wide cavern where which a stream from above ran through. Being sightless they had only the direction of Arith's own arrows and the creaking of her bow to tell them where to shoot, and each one fell as Lydia charged their arrow-stuck bodies to finish them quickly.

The stairs around the stream hid more spoils of the Falmer raids, and after that Arith and Lydia found themselves emerging from the winding corridors into the night air again. The *cold* night air, emphasising how drenched they had got in reaching the exit.

"Let us look for landmarks to find ourselves tomorrow," requested Lydia. "I am dead on my feet, and saw no corridor we missed that might lead to the Argonian."

"Agreed. I will start up a fire and lay out the bedrolls if you start the search for way down. It must be in there somewhere."

xxx

Derkeethus, as the Argonian was named, grew a much sunnier demeanour when they returned. "You are still alive? Then please, get me out of here!"

It took some groping in the dark, but eventually scouring the rooms proved fruitful as the doorway down was a mechanical device, much like the one that had nearly mutilated Arith further up the passage. Though politeness drove Arith to offer him a seat around their fire, Derkeethus seemed far more intent on simply returning home to Darkwater Crossing, even if he had to do so at night, but bid them a friendly farewell, in his own way.

"Ours is to smile at your passing, friend."

After his departure, Arith looked across their fire as she and Lydia warmed their feet and dried their boots. "Is it me, or do all Argonian pleasantries sound like funeral verses?"

Lydia seemed too tired to care. "Let them have their strange ways. With your permission, my Thane, I will sleep."

"By all means. I can tend the fire, and I have a new book to read until you take watch."

Said book was a comprehensive, if rather too broad treatise on the basics of enchanting, and during her watch Arith made much use of the Falmer's enchanting table, breaking down her arcane spoils and destroying her Dwemer bow so as to enchant a new one, replicating the magics almost perfectly.

Lydia woke five hours later to take her shift - one could not be too careful even in a newly cleared ruin - to see Arith still pouring over the tome, and comparing her latest work to its guides.

"Have you been doing that all night?"

Arith smiled, her eyelids only half open. "Only when not watching the tunnels. I think I am getting the hang of this, Lydia. But I have emptied all my soul gems now, and so hit a dead end. I'm sure I could make this whole process more efficient, that must have been what Farengar Secret-Fire meant, but the answer just won't come to me."

Lydia came over in her stocking feet and took the book from Arith's hands. "Then rest, mageling, and sleep on it. Before you fall and knock your learning from your spinning head."

That sounded like a good idea, until the sarcasm seeped through into her sleepy mind. "Lydia, I hope you are not mocking me. I am no 'mageling'. Does magic hold no fascination for you at all?"

"A stout blade and sturdy shield are my tools, my Thane. I would want no other."

xxx

The morning saw them start with a hearty breakfast - mead replacing water at Arith's suggestion to 'keep out the morning chill' - and then a stiff climb up from the pass exit to try and view their surroundings. It was difficult to gauge their position from within the pine trees, but upon reaching the plateau above they found a large river, and Arith consulted her map again.

"... I think this *is* the river I was trying to follow. We have cut onto a path that I thought didn't exist after all! What on Tamriel!" Arith folded the map and stuck it back in her pack. "Well, no matter. We are here after all, so we should reach Ivarstead by nightfall, if not before."

Not ten minutes up the river path their way was blocked though. A troll stood beating on the side of a freshly killed deer, and among the rocks lay two bodies in Stormcloak uniform. "Lydia, can you distract it with the bow you found? I have a soul gem to fill."

When it was dead, Arith turned to the deer, and the man and woman by the side of the road, until Lydia lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Please, my Thane, do not take their armour too. Were their deaths not misfortune enough?"

Arith did pause. "Lydia, what would it look like if I were to start selling Stormcloak uniforms? I have no love for them, but don't intend to go looking for a fight either."

One the woman, however, she did find a note about their task. "'It's probably just a couple of wolves'," she read aloud at the end. "'so you'll only need to send at most two men. Happy hunting'."

"Ready for wolves, and finding a troll. Poor fools, to be so unprepared."

xxx

Though their hearts were heavy from that grim discovery the road was easy going and they were much further up the riverside road than Arith had guessed. They reached Ivarstead by mid morning.

Arith had expected something grander but the place seemed to be a pleasant farming village, nestled in a protected fold of the foothills, away from the worst of the weather. As they approached, an elf and Nord man stood at the bride across the river, debating too loudly to be entirely casual.

"On your way up the 7,000 steps again Klimmek?" asked the elf.

"Not today. I'm just not ready to make the climb to High Hrothgar. The path just isn't safe."

The elf feigned surprise. "Aren't the Greybeards expecting some supplies?"

"Honestly, I'm not certain. I've yet to be allowed into the monastery." The man seemed tired of the veiled accusations, and sighed. "Perhaps one day."

Seeing Arith and Lydia approach he turned to greet them while the elf made his exit, his point made.

"Passing through on the way to High Hrothgar? I'm about to make a delivery there myself. Apparently."

Arith frowned. Of course the Greybeards wouldn't meet her at Ivardstead. She was expected to climb the bloody mountain. "Delivery up there?" She pointed to the mountain towering above them, upon which High Hrothgar sat. "What could you possibly want to take?"

He shrugged. "Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats. You know, things that keep fresh for a long time. The greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning."

Yet they could summon her from across the other side of the mountain well enough, Arith thought. "And in return?"

"Well, there's kind of an understanding between us. I mean, it wouldn't feel right to charge them just for a bit of preserved food. Trouble is, my legs aren't what they used to be, and climbing the 7,000 steps takes its toll."

"If it is burdensome," Lydia put in from behind, "we will likely be making that trip today in any case."

Klimmek agreed eagerly, if with dignified restraint in his voice. And what harm was there in it. Especially if Lydia was volunteering to take it. Arith still had a pack full of dragon bones, after all.

As noble as this all was though, Arith did have one concern. "And if we are to be carrying your goods, perhaps you could tell us of these dangers you mentioned to your Bosmer friend?"

"Well, there's the occasional wolf pack, or stray," he eyed their weapons, "But that shouldn't be a problem for the likes of you. Other than that, just watch your footing. In these wintry conditions the stairs can be treacherous."

He thanked them again before heading back to the village. "Be careful up there."

Arith was not ready to make that climb yet though. She had steam to let off over having to make that legendary climb in the first place, and their packs were heavy with bandit and Falmer loot.

xxx

Strangely, for such a nice, quaint village, its inhabitants were a miserable lot. The farmers lived in a respectful fear of the Greybeards and the rumblings that came from their monastery, and the mill was run by a woman who was willing to pay what little gold she had to have the locals bears thinned out before their constant interference drove her out of business.

There was not even a store for Arith to unload her spoils into. In fact, the only place of any interest was the local tavern - a rest-stop for pilgrims and travellers - and even that had the unfortunate name of 'The Vilemyr Inn'.

Inside, the few patrons there were seemed similarly disenfranchised. The barmaid seemed bored with life in the village, and Klimmek's creepy friend has little to say on the matter of the Greybeards, or anything else for that matter. One cheerful looking man by the door suggested a drinking contest, and just to break the monotony Arith was tempted to accept. She probably would have done if Lydia was not there with business on her mind. "Perhaps once my business here is done, friend."

The Inkeeper himself had dark eyes, and warned them away from the barrow house across the river if they were planning to stay. He and the barmaid had been taking about it only moments before, she having disobeyed already, it seemed. "The place is haunted," he added gravely.

Arith had to ask. "A haunted barrow. Truly?"

"It is, and you should stay away! I've seen one of the spirits with my very own eyes. When it glared at me, I swear it burned right through my soul!"

"And these 'spirits'. Do they haunt the village as well?"

The barman shook his head. "No, fortunately they seem to stay with the barrow. As if they are guarding it. Certainly isn't helping my business any. Who'd want to rent a room anywhere near a haunted barrow?"

Arith looked to Lydia. In her mind it probably made the place very attractive indeed, to the right type of guest. Definitely a talking point, and a way to break the apparent monotony with gossip. "I think I might, when I have finished my... ah, pilgrimage. But in the mean time, let my friend and I have a drink."

xxx

It turned out the miller woman's concerns about bears were justified, as no sooner had Arith and Lydia begun their climb than they met their first, staring down from the steps and clearly unwilling to cede possession of them. In the end there was no way around and when the animal attacked they put it down as swiftly as they could.

There were a few straggling wolves as well, just as Klimmek had warned, but more noteworthy were the other pilgrims. Arith had expected to find few people there after the poor welcome at Ivarstead, but the few men and women they met past the snow line were calm, friendly people. Though not really seeing the point, Arith did stop at the enshrined inscriptions as she and Lydia climbed, as it seemed like the thing to do.

The third pilgrim they found wearing far too little for the weather, just a basic studded skirt and jerkin, and yet she sat cross legged in the snow in front of the shrine. All she would say was her name, Karita, and that she was a pilgrim as well, and it was better left at that.

Then as Arith tried to see what simple word were inscribed on that shrine she heard Lydia shriek. "Stendarr have mercy! My Thane, a dragon!

Arith had not heard a thing, but she turned at the warning to have a cloud of snow splash across her face, and a giant blue-brown muzzle emerge from it only feet from her own head.

Arith panicked. The only dragon she'd seen to the point had slain two men and badly burned several others, and she had fought it from the safety of a tower. This one was already on her, and there was no cover on this snowblown mountain path.

She bolted, racing back up the steps they had descended to reach the shrine, and pausing only to look back for Lydia and the pilgrim woman.

But they didn't follow. Karita the pilgrim stood below the giant creature with sword and shield in hand, laughing as it poured its freezing breath over her. "Hahaha, think you can take me?"

Only a Nord could have laughed in the face of such an attack, but laugh that woman did as she stepped up to slash at the dragon's forelegs.

Likewise Lydia stood between Arith and the beast, looking at her expectedly. "My Thane, slay it! Slay the dragon!"

Arith's heart leaped into her throat, and as they both ducked at the dragon's roar, Arith dashed forward to try and pull her away.

"My Thane?"

"Lydia, I did not slay the dragon at Whiterun! Irileth killed it, even as it set her alight! I just shot arrows into its hide from within the tower!"

Understanding began to shine in Lydia's eyes. "Then it was your bloodline that earned you..."

The dragon bellowed again, and they both turned to see it take flight. Karita stood still, bleeding but eager as she called the beast back. And return it did, circling above them to land atop the courageous woman.

Arith felt her cowardice melt at the sight of a kinsman so eager for glory, and so eager to face death. "Oh for the love of all things beautiful," she exclaimed, pulling her bow from its place on her back. "Lydia, fight with her. I will draw it away if I can. Go!"

Lydia's smile glowed before she charged to meet the dragon's landing, leaving Arith to squint through the powdered snow and set her good eye on the dragon's throat. Arrow after arrow stuck the beast's neck and face, twitching it left and right as they did, until at last the beast grew weary of the annoyance and with one last blast of freezing breath leaped over the swordswomen and into Arith. Hardened to the cold from a life in these frozen northlands Arith closed her eye, drew her bow, and shot down the beast's gullet.

The dragon recoiled, thrashing every which way in its attempts to dislodge the arrow inside its throat, and Arith saw the chance to do as Irileth had, and claim the kill. Dropping her bow into the snow she drew her axe and leaped for the beast's head. It would not hold still to let her administer the killing blow, and instead dragged her from her feet as she grasped at its horns. From that rodeo perch Arith hacked like a woman possessed, smashing at its face and head until the beast finally fell dead, leaving Arith to jump away safe.

And then it happened. Staggering upright again Arith felt that holy glow rise in her chest as the dragon's flesh began to burn away.

Yes, she thought, it's happening. It's happening again!

And so it did. The dragon's soul was claimed not by her axe but by her flesh, power flowing through every fibre of her being until the whirlwind passed.

"Lydia! Lydia, we did it!"

From the small shrine Lydia stared in awe. "That you did, my Thane. I... had not expected to ever see such a thing, but you *are* the Dovahkiin."

It was then that Arith saw the body that lay behind Lydia. "Karita?"

Lydia shook her head. "The dragon's breath overcame her, at last. She died a warrior's death."

xxx

Arith was quiet as she scavenged what she could of the dragon's meagre remains. There was no way she could carry the combined collection of bones, scales and all the bandit armour she had already hauled about for the last three days. And, while she did so, Lydia laid their fallen warrior to rest by the side of the shrine.

To be both so empowered and humbled by death at the same time sat uncomfortably in Arith's breast. This should be a time of celebration; to jump around in the snow like a silly girl at her achievement, and her reverl in the power sitting waiting in her chest. And yet, that would have undermined the spirit of the woman who had died valiantly and fighting for glory alongside them.

Lydia rejoined her, eventually bringing several pieces of jewellery with her. "She wore an amulet of Talos. It looks to be inscribed with some manner of Dragon symbol, so it seemed fitting that you have it, rather than the next grave-robber to make this journey."

That would have been the justification Arith would have given. The tricket would just disappear otherwise, or fade beneath the earth, and the enchantment upon it did feel akin to her Shout.

"Likewise," Lydia cleared her throat. "Her armour is still in good repair, and it would protect you better than simple leather. If you intend to abandon all those stupid hide shirts at last..."

Arith nodded. "By all means. If you will not object. I... may need assistance with all this though."

Lydia gave her a wry smile, and sighed as she eyed the dragon's bones. Perhaps she had already resigned herself to it. "I am sworn to carry your burdens."

And that was that. They pair left the re-dressed warrior by the shrine as night fell, to finish their ascent.

As it was, a snow troll was all that marred a cold but beautiful night, the thin air making them both light headed but likewise making the tails of wind-caught snow look like the hair of Dibella, Goddess of Beauty herself. And then above came the aurora, playing its visual music across the deep night's sky as if to salute them, and the fallen Karita.

"It... truly is beautiful, isn't it?" Arith could only wish she had two eyes to appreciate it with, because surely only one was doing the sight a disservice.

Even the tall, stark stone of High Hrothgar itself could not mar that image.

"It is. I am glad you brought me this far, my Thane. If only to see this."

xxx

They deposited their food bundle as Klimmek had requested, and entered. In contrast to the dark beauty outside the halls of High Hrothgar were merely dark, and gloomy after the aurora. Somehow, Arith had expected more from these legendary sages.

"So, a Dovahkiin appears, at this moment, in the turning of the age." One of those men approached with those words, a smile beneath his eponymous beard.

Arith stepped forward. After that humbling climb she was in the mood to be deferential no longer. "You call me "Dragonborn", old man. What does that *mean*?"

He quirked a bushy eyebrow, and looked her up and down, "First let us see if you truly *are* Dovahkiin. Let us taste of your voice."

Fine, Arith through. If that's what you want. "FUS!"

The shockwave blasted the old man back, leaving him tottering unsteadily on his feet. As it did the man who had filed out behind him. On the stairs at the far side of the hall, behind the plume of dust that followed, a jar was knocked from its perch to shatter of the stone floor, and echo around the hall.

The old man steadied himself and approached once more, this time almost reverently. "Dovahkiin, it *is* you. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now, tell me Dovahkiin, why have you come here?"

Arith glared at him. How dare he play games now, of all times. "My *name* is Arith Half-Blind and I *came* here because you called me to, with thunder from the skies no less!"

Unperturbed by her ire, Arngeir bowed. "Then we are honoured to welcome Arith Half-Blind to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny."

"My... destiny."

"Yes, what it is will be for you to discover. However, while we cannot show you the destination, we can show you the path to travel.."

That was enough for her, and Arith agreed. "Then teach. Learning I can do, at least. But tomorrow. The climb was more tiring than it should have been, and my companion and I need drink and rest."

Arngeir seemed content with that, especially given the late hour. "You may not find the drink you are looking for, but we can provide water and beds for you both."

Arith looked to Lydia, standing quietly behind, and then back to him. "Then she and I will be glad to drink our own mead. Lead on, Master Arngeir."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

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(c) Nutzoide 2012


	3. A Mad Morning After

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 3: A Mad Morning After

"You have shown that you are Dovahkiin, you have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path that has been laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

Lydia sat on the steps of the monastery halls, watching on as the five Greybeards lectured her thane.

"When you Shout you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your dragon blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power."

So while Arith tried to egg the old men on to get past the basic talk and down to explaining just what it was she could do, and why, Lydia had to ask herself: How could a human have dragon's blood running in her veins? The old sage priest said that it was a gift from the Divines themselves, a portent of things to come and of some great unknown prophesy to be fulfilled. No doubt, the appearance of the Dovahkiin at this time was not an accident, Arngeir had explained. Arith's destiny was surely bound up with the return of the dragons.

One of the old men whispered a single syllable, and in a plume of smoke and stone dust the power of his tongue etched a word in some runic language onto the very floor of the hall. If her charge was intended to be that powerful... What use did she have for a housecarl? Besides carrying her excess loot.

"As part of the initiation, master Einar will allow you to tap into his understanding of 'Ro'."

But whether her presence was required or not Lydia could not help but be awed by the magic these people possessed, and she would not have stayed in Whiterun for the world if it meant she would miss these spectacles. Magic coursed between the silent old man and Arith, and the woman looked as though the power would render her insensate at any point. But she remained standing, breathless, and eager for even more instruction.

"Now, let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um."

Arith took a breath, and shouted. "FUS RO!"

The 'Unrelenting Force' dashed the illusionary target aside, more powerfully than when Arith had used only the first syllable.

"Well Done. Again."

"FUS RO!"

"You learn quickly. Once more."

The smile of confidence on Arith's face was unmistakable. She enjoyed this power mightily.

"FUS RO!"

"Impressive. Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Arith."

Soon the lessons took them outside to learn a new shout entirely. One that did not so much project as empower, at least to Lydia's untrained eye. It took little time at all before Arith could fling herself along the ground with the same astonishing speed that her tutor did, and nearly off the edge of the cliff that the garden rested upon.

And all too soon the day came to an end. Arith had learned in those few hours what these men had apparently taken years, even decades to master. And they honoured her for it. The Gods were fickle indeed.

"You are now ready for your last trial." Master Arngeir told Arith after dinner that night. "Retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the way of the Voice, and you will return."

An ominous portent. Lydia hoped that Arith was up to the challenge, and that she would be able to assist her in some way, even without the Voice.

xxx

As they reached Ivarstead once again, the mountain climb behind them, Arith found Lydia in forward-thinking mood.

"Have you given any thought to the route for the morrow, my Thane?"

Honestly, she hadn't. Getting down the mountain and to the Vilemyr Inn had been foremost in Arith's mind, while the rest of her thoughts had been wondering quite what this little fetching quest was supposed to teach her. Granted, the Greybreads had given her much already, and asked for nothing but this journey from her in return, but Arith would much have preferred to remain at the monastery and learn than head back to Whiterun and then carry on the same distance again to the fjords of the northern coast.

"I have been thinking more of a hearty meal and a drink, but if you have a suggestion I will gladly hear it."

Lydia did. "Rather than leave eastwards again only to round the mountain northwest, we might travel beneath it after all, through the south foothills. After our detour through Darkwater pass last time, it might be a quicker route, even if we have to avoid Helgen."

It would also give them a trading post at Riverwood as well, to offload their burdens and provide proper beds before reaching Whiterun. If that route was safe again.

"Very well, we shall sleep on it. Until then, I remember a man here who offered a chance to drink, and if he still wishes company with his mead then I for one will be glad to join him! He is surely better company for the night than the rest of this gloomy village."

As it turned out, he was. If only that had been all that he was.

xxx

"Wake up! That's right, it's time to wake up you drunken blasphemer!"

The pain in her head smashed through the sleep in Arith's eyes and she awoke on a stone bed, looking up into the hooded face of... someone. "Uhg...Blasphemer?"

What had happened to her? She remembered how one drink had turned into a drinking challenge, which in turn had become a whistle-stop binge of a half dozen taverns and all manner of hilarious drunken plots, but not one detail came to mind as she clasped her pounding head. Arith considered herself a master of her hangovers, but this would be one for the ages.

"I see... So you don't remember fondling the statuary then?"

Statuary? She looked past that angry face to see the inside of a temple, and the beatific nudes of the Divine Dibella, goddess of the arts, beauty and pleasure, in all her glorious guises. Oh no.

The priestess continued to frown as clarity returned to Arith's eyes. "I'm guessing you also don't remember about coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage, or a goat."

"W-What..?"

"Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple."

Arith held up her hands, half in apology and half pleading for the wretched woman to stop speaking so painfully loudly. Was this what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of her Shouts? "I'm sorry, I don't even remember how I got here."

"Oh, I'd love to help you figure it out, but I'm so busy cleaning up the mess you've made of our temple...Now if you were to help tidy up and perhaps apologise afterwards... I might be able to help you."

Arith nodded, happy to agree if it would only make the pain stop, until she spied Lydia, sitting in one of the stone chairs - stone chairs? - to one side. "Lydia? What in Her gracious name happened? Is this a temple to Dibella? Where *are* we?"

"Markath."

... "But that's on the other side of the country!" Arith wince as her own voice now stuck its talons into her tender mind. "It would have taken days..."

Lydia fixed her with an unimpressed glare. "I wouldn't know, my Thane. Your eagerness to demonstrate your whirlwind Voice left me unable to keep pace with you and your new friend. Even on horseback. You had already been here a day before I caught up, and the iron-stomached Mr Guevenne had already left."

Lydia left the recriminations at that, and instead went to fetch water for her while Arith cleaned. The work seemed mostly done, but what was left to be gathered up... Wine she could understand, but a giant's severed toe? The priestess Senna sat and drank while Arith and Lydia worked, until it was done.

"I suppose that'll do." Senna said, once the place seemed suitably clean. "Dibella teaches us forgiveness after all. Even for a drunk like you."

Arith turned her eyes to the ground. "Uh, I hate to ask, but do you remember anything I said when I got here?"

Senna shook her head. "You were ranting when you came in, but most of it was slurred. You did mention Rorikstead. Maybe you should take a look there. And here, your handsome friend left this for you, I think. I found it in the cleaning."

Arith took the crumpled note. "We need the following to repair the broken staff: Giant's toe, holy water, hagraven feathers. Sam."

That explained one of the strange items then. "...Thank you. With your pardon, I will take my leave."

Before doing so Arith approached the shrine, and bowed her head. "I'm sorry Milady. While I may not deserve it, please grant me your blessing for my journey onwards."

Behind her Lydia spoke to the priestess.

"I see no other priestesses. Why is the temple closed?"

"The sisters are communing with Dibella. They cannot be disturbed."

A brief thought crossed Arith's mind, wondering if there might be some euphemism in those words, but she quickly shook the idea from her head.

xxx

Arith had never visited Markath before. For a city that held a temple to the Divine of beauty, she thought it a distinctly ugly place. Hard carved stone stood everywhere, the city half hewn into the rock face around it, and though masterfully crafted, and lined with streams and waterfalls, the place felt somehow cold.

"You seemed unusually deferential to the sister," Lydia opined as they climbed the stone steps down to the city proper from the temple plinth. "You spoke of Mara and Stendarr, but not of such reverence to Dibella and her sisters."

"Beauty, arts, and pleasures both homely and sensual? What part of Her dominion is there not for a hearty woman to aspire to?" Arith smiled to hide her melancholy after her apparent behaviour. Fondling the statues of all things, no matter how glorious they were to behold - Arith had thought she still had some shame. The smile softened the scars that ran down her right cheek and her chin. "And why in all of Tamriel would she turn her gaze upon *this* face?"

Lydia had already taken the opportunity to sell their spoils, so there was little reason to stay and explore the city. Arith now had a drinking man *and* an old artefact to find, and she was no closer to the latter now than she had been at Ivarstead. And a city built on prison labour and the flow of mined silver was not the place for her.

However, reaching the market near the city gates Arith spied a man slipping through the light crowd, a knife in hand, clear as day. Had none of the guard noticed? Surely he didn't mean to...

She had drawn her axe by the time he reached his mark, but not in time to prevent the knife finding its sheath in the body of an unsuspecting jeweller. Screams erupted as the crowd fled left and right, and the man opened up with a blast of fire magic in their wake.

Arith's aching head exploded with the noise, and without thinking she stuck her axe in the man's back, and he fell. It was only a pity that she had no black soul gems in which to contain his wretched spirit. She would have to buy some more with the gold Lydia had got from their scavenged armours.

The city guard appeared swiftly, but too late. "Move along," the nearest man ordered, pushing Arith away from the body. "I said move along, the Forsworn are just a bunch of madmen. We have everything under control. Stay out of it."

"Margret... he... he killed her. Right in front of me. "

"Did you see that madman? A Forsworn agent, here in the city."

One of the other traders nearby seemed to recognise him when Arith asked. "I think he worked down at the smelter. A lot of labourers there are sympathetic to the forsworn. They promise that they'll kill of all the Nords who rule over the reach. Nothing but murderers and saboteurs."

Well, at least the guard had the matter under control now. Arith turned away, only to bump right into a man already approaching her. "Gods, a woman attacked right here on the street. Did you see what happened?

Arith looked darkly at him "I was right there. I killed the maniac myself."

And perversely, the man apologised. "I'm so sorry. I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future. Oh, I think you dropped this note?"

"Oh, uh, thank you." She took the note and was about to return into her pocket, until she noticed it wasn't Sam Guevenne's crumpled note at all, but something new and very hastily written out.

'Meet me at the Shrine of Talos.'

Arith looked to Lydia, and the up to the walkway the man had hurried across. "Okay. I think I want to find out what that was all about. And maybe the hair of the wolf will keep this headache at bay."

xxx

Up at the shrine behind the Temple to Dibella that man, by the name Eltrys, bid them a humble welcome. "I'm sorry to drag you into Markath's problems, but after that attack in the market I'm running out of time. You're an outsider, and a dangerous looking one at that. You'll do."

Arith was taken aback. "'I'll do?' Either you need to start explaining yourself, or I'll leave you and your lack of time to your privacy!"

Eltrys, however, was clearly desperate over *something*, and it wasn't difficult to guess what. "You want answers? So do I! So does everyone in this city! A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess."

And she 'would do', would she? "You know what? I don't need th..."

But Eltrys cut her off, his tone turning to pleading. "This has been going on for years, and all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please! You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Waylin and the forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me!"

Only the mention of gold kept Arith from leaving this man and his city to their problems, and he spun her a sad tale that went back 20 years, to when the Stormcloaks had first ousted the native men of the mines.

In the end, it would have been mean of her not to at least make some enquiries. She was not a woman to be discreet, but as an outsider to the city she could ask questions with impunity.

"Alright. I leave tomorrow, but I will see if I can hear anything before I go."

Sadly the keeper of the inn where the murdered jeweller had been staying knew nothing, and was not willing to go poking into the dead woman's belongings to see if there was anything that might shed light on why she had been killed. Nor did he trust her to do so, apparently.

The unpleasant Orsimer foreman at the mine, however, must have heard something about the killer himself. Indeed he did admit after only a little pestering that the man Waylin was given a slip of paper along with his pay, though it was the keeper of the Warrens - the worker's slum carved under the cliff - she would have to talk to about that.

xxx

As it happened Garvey the key keeper seemed to be the type to greet anyone who came in from the city, and to warn off those who had no reason to linger. "The warrens aren't a place for your type. What do you want?"

It wasn't the place for anyone, in Arith's opinion. The place stank, lit only by torches and open fires in the main hallway, and several of the men and women looked to be in need of one form of curative elixir or another.

Garvey was also the man to talk to about any of the Warren inhabitants, Waylin included. And getting the key out of him seemed to be a simple matter of being earnest. "It's important – of that, I can assure you."

Perhaps Garvey had been waiting a long time for someone to put what remained of his trust in. Or maybe he realised that she and her bodyguard might actually be able to get something done for them. "Trust is hard to come by here, but alright."

Inside, Waylin's room was as bare and filthy as the rest must have been, so Arith guessed. But he did have something that might give Eltrys a lead. The note read, "Waylin, you've been chosen to strike fear into the hearts of the Nords. Go to the Market tomorrow. You will know what to do. N."

Hardly the plan of a master criminal. A random killing, on behalf of whoever 'N' was. Nothing more than a scare. Arith thanked Garvey and left Waylin's room bare, only to walk into a mohawk-wearing man by the stream outside who brought Lydia and herself up short.

"You've been diggin' around where you don't belong, little girl. It's time you learned a lesson."

Arith blinked. This man was spoiling for a fight? Again, just out in broad daylight? He was larger than her, but did not look as tough with it as many Nords. "Oh? A lesson from who?"

"Someone who doesn't like you asking questions!"

He threw the first punch, and as was customary among the Nord Arith accepted he challenge without expecting help to come to either side. Brawls were common among the tough and war-proud people, and while it wasn't where Arith's strengths lay she knew how to take a punch as well as any man of her size.

In fact the two were well matched, and a final hefty blow was all that set them apart, Arith exhausted and battered as she stood panting and bleeding over her fallen foe.

"You mangy piece of pit-bait," the thug snarled up at her, but Arith spat some blood from her broken lip at him.

"Start talking, wretch, or you'll feel more than just my fists."

He withered under her words. "I was sent by Nepos the Nose. The old man hands out the orders. He told me to make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know, I swear."

Arith kicked him away and he staggered off, while she cast a healing spell to sooth her once again ringing head. Not only did they have a note now, but a name as well. Eltrys would have to pay well for that, and for the beating she had just taken."

xxx

Pay well he did, a small fortune in fact, and he had offered them even more to follow up and see if they could find the orders Nepos must have been receiving himself. The cause must have been dear to him, more so than Arith had originally guessed, if so much gold was a stake.

But she was not a guard of this city, nor did she want to delay any further in chasing after the man who had been complicit in her last few days of drunkenness. Though what she remembered had been great fun, she wanted answers now that her mind was mostly clear.

She bid Eltryss farewell, hoping that with a name the city might be able to follow the trail themselves at last. How they had not found even that much after years either spoke of hesitance on their part, or simple fear. They would have to overcome both if they were ever to change heir circumstances, and Arith did not believe crutches would heal anything but a lame leg.

Setting out from Markarth was an experience, leaving behind the vast stone halls and towering architecture for more familiar green fields and grey mountains. Mines dotted the mountainsides, harassed by these forsworn barbarians, but beyond a singular attack from those very same barbarians the day's travel proved calm and refreshing. Cool air soothed Arith's head, and Lydia took to picking at the abundance of wildflowers that lined the path for her own amusement.

Though the journey around the mountains of the reach to Rorikstead - their only real lead - would take two days at most, places to stop along the way were few and far between. Day turned to dusk and the weather had long drawn in by the time they reached the bridge that would finally take them *south* west to their destination rather than north west along the river paths. Grey drizzling rain set their moods as they reached the Broken Tower Redoubt, an old fort now apparently taken by the forsworn. That those barbarous people would not let them pass without a skirmish was given, but while they had numbers on their side they had proven poorly equipped on the road, fighting with fervour rather than skill. With Arith and Lydia needing a place to rest for the night in any case, with no guarantee of one for hours yet, they decided to do Markarth a favour, and strike at this forsworn group before they could return the favour.

With the cover of darkness over them, and the forsworn caught unaware, the two of them carved a swathe through the barbarian ranks. A silent arrow would kill one, and sword and axe would take any others who lingered from room to room, Arith and Lydia always bearing down on a single foe, or at most one fur-clad fanatic each. Even their mage leader posed little threat, his flames finding Arith's shield as Lydia hacked into his sides.

Yet, despite being a less threatening fight than many since Arith's escape, these forsworn galled her the most. She cared little for city politics, but on the upper floor of the fort sat an old shrine, to Dibella of all Divines, her aging statue smeared with blood, and... body parts offered up to it. Did these people truly think that a skinned skull or hollowed ribcage would make a suitable offering to the goddess of beauty? What manner of sickening worship had these barbarians committed in Her name?

"Lydia, gather up these bastards' ales and wines. I need to wash away this... mess."

As she did, she was made far too aware that her hands were once again blaspheming against Dibella's form, if with the best of intentions this time. "Forgive me, my Lady. I meant no disrespect."

And among the forsworn's looted possessions was golden statue that self-same Goddess hidden away with the rest of their spoils. Arith took it with no sense of guilt or trespass to the Divine. Setting up a camp outside on the ramparts within the forsworn tents - Arith could not think of resting *inside* those walls after that sight - she set the statue down and preyed.

"Lydia?"

Her housecarl turned from the pot their late supper cooked in. "Yes, my Thane?"

"When our business elsewhere is done, we might return here and help Eltryss unmask these bastards after all."

She felt all the gladder when Lydia nodded. The armoured woman had retreated and left Arith to restore the shrine, making their tent ready instead, but she had not been unmoved by the sight that had so sickened Arith. "... It would be my pleasure to lend you my sword when you do."

xxx

Having made more than half their journey the day before the pair reached Rorikstead by mid-afternoon, and after having taken time both to leave a more proper offering of food, gold and wine at the shrine and to display the forsworn bodies outside the fort as a warning to any other who dared try to take the place with ill intent again.

Clearly Dibella herself had been gladdened by their deeds, because they walked in clear weather with the sun on their skin until reaching the farming town, again a single attack - bandits this time - their only trial. What Dibella could not provide, however, was Sam's whereabouts. Nobody in the steading seemed to know who Sam Guevenne even was, but someone knew Arith all too well.

"You!" The distraught farmer, a redgard by the colour of his skin, marched over to her and near leaped his own fence in his haste. Arith backed away instinctively, thankful that he didn't appear to be armed. "You've got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again!" he raged. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"What?" Arith stood utterly bemused at the scolding. "I don't know?"

"Is that so? Does the name Gleda ring a bell? The star beauty of my farm? Kidnapped by a dunk lout and sold to a *giant*? You'd better remember her right fast before I call the guards and have you hauled away!

Oh. So this man had also been a victim of their alcoholic revelling. "I...That does sound pretty bad..."

"You're damned right it does!" The farmer raved on. "I'll never breed another prize winning goat like Gleda. And don't you think of coming back to Rorikstead until you get her back from that giant!"

Arith breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, just a goat." Come to think of it she did remember something about making off with a goat. It had seemed hilarious at the time. And for a monster that would usually attack on sight, the giant had been quite amicable in trading. "I don't suppose I said anything about a staff at the time? I wasn't *quite* in my right mind."

"I'll say you weren't," Lydia muttered behind her, but the redguard farmer just turned redder, if that was possible.

"Yes! You were laughing about some stupid staff when you ran off with my goat! Tell you what you thieving trollop, you get my goat back, and maybe I'll start giving a damn about your staff!"

While she didn't appreciate the name-calling, it did seem like the thing to do. Even if it was just a goat, he did seem quite upset. Thankfully the giant was known to live around the hills nearby, rather than travelling with a camp, so making off with the goat or just killing him would not be nearly so difficult as dealing with giants could normally be.

As Arith and Lydia left to take lunch and then look for that goat, hopefully not eaten in the last few days, Arith nearly walked face first into the farmer's tall Bosmer wife, standing right behind her. "Did you see those guards?" She warned, her angular features looking very stern. "Step out of line again and you'll have them to deal with."

Strangely, after dealing with over a dozen forsworn rebels in the last day, with the Words gifted to her by the Greybeards imprinted in her mind, that threat didn't seem nearly as dire as it once might have.

xxx

As it turned out, the giant lived not even an hour from the town, and they found him sat with the goat and playfully dancing it about on a thick leash. From behind their rise of rock, Lydia took a deep breath. "Well, do you wish to try and 'talk' to it again? How you managed that once already is well beyond me."

Arith honestly didn't know either. And more to the point... "I can't imagine that ending well. And besides, I have some new soul gems that require filling with more than just petty wildlife. This... would you object to killing him?"

"After the giant attacks on the farms around Whiterun?" Lydia shook her head. "If we both fill it full of arrows before it reaches us, we may be able to finish it quickly."

Arith looked to the hunting bow slung across Lydia's back. She was a competent shot, and just as eager as Arith was to practice her archery if the need for a sword was not dire. "Very well. On my count."

Between Arith's first shot and the giant reaching their rock they had put eight arrows into its thick skin, and thankfully Lydia, shield already in hand, had the presence of mind to step away before it's enormous club cracked the rock she had been perched on. Lydia then stepped in to embed her sword into the giant's right shin while Arith put her Whirlwind shout into practice and dashed across to hack at its left in only a single second.

The combined assault was enough to topple the giant onto its knees, sealing its fate. Though strong beyond compare even a giant would die with an axe to the back of the neck, and the now familiar crack of the Soul Trap spell that enchanted Arith's weapon left them in no doubt whether it had been enough.

Trembling with the excitement of such an all or nothing battle, and won so decisively, Arith and Lydia shared a giddy smile. "That was... not nearly as bad as I feared," Lydia admitted. "While I had suspected I would have to help slay a giant one day, I never expected to do so as one of only two warriors!"

"Well," Arith said, her good eye glinting with the irony, "now you can add the glory to that of dragon-slaying. Now, where did that goat run to?"

Not far was the answer, the animal seemingly unshaken by the noisy clash only a few dozen feet away.

Ennis the farmer was overjoyed when they returned. "Gleda, and not a scratch on her! Happy day!"

Rather too overjoyed over a simple animal, Arith thought "Here is your goat. Now, do you have anything that might help me retrace my steps? You are the only one who has had *any* lead so far."

"What I still can't figure out is why you stole her in the first place! You left a note explaining, but half of it was gibberish and the rest was sodden with mead. The only bit I could make out was 'repaying Ysolda in Whiterun', and even that's mostly scribbles. Guess you could ask her what you're repaying her for, eh?"

Arith looked to Lydia. How on earth had she got to this town, then back to Whiterun, and *then* over to Markarth in only four days! "The merchant girl?"

With that much now discovered their next destination was clear. At least they were already on the road to take them back to Whiterun, albeit from the opposite direction they had first intended. Renting a room at the inn for the night, Arith ran an idea past her warrior friend.

"Lydia? I remember this path could take us past the Swindler's Den if we cut through across the moors rather than take the road."

"You are not thinking on attacking a full giant camp, my Thane? While we were victorious today, that would be a very different fight I think." It was unusual seeing her housecarl out of that steel armour. Normally she seemed like such a broad, solid woman, but underneath that shell lay a lightly curved and pleasantly muscled body. While Arith might not be the most proper warrior to have cleared the Broken Tower Redoubt in Her name, Dibella would have been proud to have Lydia has an agent of her will.

Arith set her mind back on her conversation, rather than her surprising friend. "True. But while I do not remember causing problems for Ysolda, I would not have put it past myself to... create some mischief. I had already met her before the Dragon, and she seemed the sort of idealist I might make trouble for, before I had Greybeards to worry about."

"Is that so," Lydia smirked, probably imagining some dreadful teasing that might not have been far from the truth. "But what of her?"

"She asked if she could buy a mammoth tusk from me, should I ever manage to find one on my travels. It might make for a good apology gift."

Understanding flared in Lydia's eyes. "I see. You know, there is a chance you might *not* have offended her like to seem to have done everyone else on your travels."

Arith gave her a flat stare as Lydia lay down on the bed. The woman had quite a dry sense of humour in that otherwise deferential tongue. "Then she will still likely buy the thing."

xxx

"So, you're finally back. Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me."

Ysolda was another one who Dibella had smiled upon. That face was prettier than most, not yet turned lined or leathered by life and weather. Arith was in equal parts jealous and inexplicably drawn to those faces that still possessed what she herself had lost. "Yes, I've been getting that a lot lately."

Ysolda's pretty face turned sympathetic. "Aw, what's wrong? Did the engagement fall through? Look, how about we call it even, as long as you bring back the wedding ring."

And right then, if Arith had not already been as pale as could be, those around might have said she turned white. As it was, Ysolda was none the wiser. Behind her, Lydia choked, while Arith tried to find her voice. "The... wedding..."

"That's really a shame." Ysolda went on. "I was looking forward to it. You said you'd have all the most interesting guests."

"Of... course. Knowing my life to date, I am sure that I would. Ysolda, in all honesty the mead had got the better of me, and I really do not know what I did with that ring, or where it might be."

The would-be trader looked shocked. "You said you would head right out to give it to your fiance. Don't you even remember where you left him? And after you told be that sweet story of how you met in Witchmist Grove in the east." She sighed. "I can see why he left you. Oh well."

As Ysolda headed back to the market, Arith was content to stand in stunned silence. "L-Lydia? Marriage? And Witchmist Grove? How in the hells did I cross the entire country in only four days!"

Lydia shook her head, content to knead at her temples as she tried to rationalise it herself. She had not even realised the two of them had passed into the eastern half of the country during their drunken wanderings. "Your voice of speed must be a thing of power indeed, even possessing just that one syllable."

Arith put down her pack and unwrapped Sam's note again, as if it would give some indication as to why on earth a wedding would be involved, or Witchmist Grove... Except that one of the items they apparently needed for the staff was Hagraven feathers.

What blood had remained in her face promptly drained away, leaving her faint. "Oh sweet Stendarr have mercy. Tell me I didn't try to wed a Hagraven in this jape. What kind of insane drunken rampage did I go on!"

"Well, you do seem to be taken with helping the prettier damsels like Ysolda and that redguard barmaid," Lydia replied. "Perhaps even a witch as monstrous as the Hagravens might seem fair after enough drink. And you did drink more than any woman ever should, Arith, even before you left me behind."

Arith felt tears coming to her good left eye. The more she had dug the more she had wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, but this was just too much. It would take days to pass by the Throat of the World again, only to end up in those worrisome eastern forests. And for what, a ring she had given to a Hag that had talons for feet and a face ugly enough to haunt a child's nightmares for years? No. Whatever more she had done, she did not wish to know. This had to be Sam's fault, because even in her wildest binges - and there had been a few over the years - this was finally beyond even her capacity for madness.

"Between selling all the armour and weaponry we have taken, clearing the Broken Tower, and Eltryss' payment we now have money enough to buy dozens of even the finest wedding rings. I'll *pay* for the wretched thing, and then we can be done with this goose chase. It's not worth another pilgrimage, and I certainly never want to meet the creature I have apparently conned into marriage for the sake of a few feathers."

With the day ending however, Arith chose to sleep on it, returning to the Companions and letting none of them know just what she had got herself into since they had last parted. She would have to take on another task for them at some point, but other things came first, and even the meat and mead of Jorrvaskr came as an afterthought.

Twelve hours of sleep seemed not enough, but in the end her mind remained unchanged. As much as it galled Arith to part with the amount of gold it would likely require, especially after fighting and then bartering so hard for much of it, it would have to be done. For her sanity, if nothing else.

xxx

The sum Ysolda asked of her was astronomical. Whatever this ring was, it must have been encrusted with the finest gems in all of Skyrim. If Arith ever did meet that Hagraven - many years to come if possible - she would gut her just for the money that ring was worth. But combined with the tusk Ysolda needed to impress the Kahjit caravaneer she hoped to learn from, the deal was done. While Arith and Lydia has finally thought better of actually attacking the giants' camp, one of their mammoths must have taken a misstep over the rocky ledges by their fire and broken its leg, because they found it dead there, and out of sight enough to retrieve a tusk after all.

"So you decided to go through with it after all, eh? I knew you couldn't have forgotten about your fiancé. You spoke about him so glowingly. I don't know much about Morvenscar, but it sounded like a lovely place for the ceremony. Congratulations. And thank you for the tusk. It should finally turn that old cat's gaze. Here, as a gift for the wedding, let me teach you a few tricks of the bartering trade. We don't want some shifty merchant giving you a raw deal."

Arith didn't have the heart to tell her she had completely got the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps she thought Arith was trying to be evasive about the whole thing, but more likely she was just a young woman with a heart full of hopeful expectation.

"Morvenscar?" Lydia must have been putting some though into more than just the young woman's mind. "Though it is still out of the way, perhaps the wedding was another part of your little game? If you are to have a reckoning with this drinking friend of yours, it would not surprise me if that was to be your secret meeting place."

If fact, that was exactly the kind of plan Arith might have made. But she certainly wasn't going to think about it now. "Then he can wait there for the rest of his life for all I care! Since we are here, I am going to make the most of Whiterun, and both he and the Greybeards can sit on their hands until I have worked this retched mess out of my blood."

"Oh?"

Arith led her away from Ysolda's house and through the market again, towards Dragonsreach up above. "I have soul gems to practice with and a captive sage to buy the results from me. Likewise, since the Warmaiden's forge is open to me I would like to speak with the blacksmith herself. I have been thinking of trying my hand at something more than leatherwork, but haven't the first idea of where to find Elven moonstone. If anyone can sell me some, and teach me how to work with it, it will be her."

She turned to Lydia, intent on repaying her for dragging her all over the country in the last week. "Take a few days for yourself Lydia, and make the most of the Jarl's hospitality." Her smile was dry and knowing. "It will take that long for me to sweat out all this frustration."

"And what of the Greybeards' task?"

"When we return to that I intend to be wearing some fine, hand-forged Elven armour, and I am sure I can buy you some new protection as well. After that ring, a few hundred gold more will hardly hurt."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

Author's note: Would you believe I got to this point in the game before realising that soul gems get CONSUMED when you enchant anything? That came as a shock, I can tell you! I'd just kind of assumed they get emptied and refilled (never noticing that I must have been collecting about as many as I used between visits!), but game loot logic outweighs my sense of narrative and gaming common sense this time.

Also, I did actually see what happened to the dead mammoth, because it flew up into sight over the rock I was sneaking around, and fell to it's death from something like thirty or forty feet! I just couldn't work out why or how since I didn't see its takeoff, and couldn't think of a way to work it into the fic!

Please leave a review with any comments and constructive criticism you may have. They are always greatly appreciated, and there is no better reward for a writer than to hear back from the readers.

(c) Nutzoide 2012


	4. Words and Wild Geese

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 4: Words and Wild Geese

The moors outside Whiterun were clear and the morning crisp when Arith and Lydia finally left once again. The rest had been welcome, though what counted as 'rest' for Arith had apparently been 'work' by Lydia's standards. The best part of two days had seen Arith learn the basics of working with quicksilver and moonstone to the point that she now strode across the moor in the fine, if simple, faux golden armour. It was garish, but that overt glamour was a mark of martial worth no skirmisher or scout would have passed up. Elves, distrusted though they were in Skyrim, made for formidable opponents when outfitted by their own.

Likewise Lydia now carried a weapon and shield of sturdy Dwemer make, apparently scavenged by local treasure hunters and brigands, and paid for with Arith's saleable experiments from the Warmaiden's forge. Simply enchanted at the Dragonsreach, those pieces were the only way Arith would even have contemplated buying the heavy, ornate equipment, but after what she had put her housecarl through over the last week it probably made for a more than generous apology.

And the better Lydia was able to defend herself, the better able she would be to defend Arith as well.

When not sweating over an anvil or an enchanting desk Arith had tried to ingratiate herself with the one Companion still hostile to her presence. Njada had been willing to tutor her in the best defensive practices with a shield, and had sweated the last drop of energy out of Arith eagerly. She had even been something like friendly in the process. Afterwards was a different matter though. It seemed that a civil conversation between them would only ever happen on the battlefield, and so Arith left the shield-sister to her brooding.

It was only after they had left Whiterun that Arith remembered the real reason she had been trying to make good with the Companions. But if Farkas did have more errands it was too late to go back for them now. And perhaps she had delayed the Greybeard's task too long already.

As it was, the day saw them trekking across open countryside well away from the paths, and instead northwest to the pass that lead through the mountains seperating them from their eventual destination of Ustengrav.

Though harder going, the moors made for a pleasant change of pace after all the road travel. Seeing deer, foxes and even mammoths - roaming wild without their giant herders - it made the civil war and Arith's own personal concerns seem very far away. Of course, with such wilderness came wolves as they finally started up into the mountains, but the poor hungry things were no threat to anyone but an unprepared merchant.

The heather and rough grass gave way to snow, the pass becoming more and more defined as the day wore on, and it was then that the Divines chose to test them. Neither of them had ventured into this part of the country before, and the vast stone arches and walls that ran across from one side of the pass to the other were a sight to be hold - enough that the snow trolls living within came as an unwelcome surprise, leaving Arith little time to shoot and no time to take advantage of the cover that the ruins would have provided.

And past the walls lay not just broken ruins, but a full town of stone built up within the pass, now abandoned to the trolls and blanketed with snow. After their first close fight, Lydia driven to her knees by the troll's strength before they could fell it, Arith and Lydia snuck down into the mountain ruins to rain arrows at the trolls that still roamed around. Though it drove the monsters to attack together, they were too stuck with arrows to last long enough against the pair. At full strength a snow troll could have beaten Arith into submission easily enough, but without that reserve to back it up her shield could fend it off long enough to tip the balance in her favour. With Arith and Lydia drawing the pair of trolls away from one another, and being able to out-pace the brutes even as snow set in, clearing the open square was strenuous but lacked real danger.

"This place would be pretty if it weren't for the snow trolls," Lydia commented as they explored. Stairs led up and down to all sorts of alcoves, alleys and hideaways, and the snow softened the hard edges of the stone.

"Maybe that's why it was abandoned," Arith suggested. She looked up to the late afternoon sky, dark with clouds. "Or maybe it was the constant blizzards. Let's find some shelter."

The shelter they did find was in the centre of the open square, a domed hut two walls thick that had kept out the worst of the weather for countless years. The place was stripped bare, pots shattered and furniture destroyed, and contained only the single skeleton of some poor unfortunate traveller.

"Or maybe he wasn't just that," Arith commented, once they had lit a small fire to keep the night's cold at bay. Several sheets of paper, likely torn from a diary, had lain beside the skeleton, brittle but still readable. "His guides killed him, from the look of it. Apparently he was some kind of mage, studying those carvings. They robbed him blind."

Indeed, against the inside wall of the small building sat a row of carved busts, likely prominent individuals from a time gone by. Arith didn't recognise any of them.

Lydia looked up from her simple meal. "But they didn't take the mask?"

Arith looked at the wooden mask beside the body. "No, his attacker was scared by it. Said it made the man vanish for hours at a time. Some sort of complex enchantment, most likely."

Taking the mask in her hands she couldn't *feel* any kind of normal enchantment from it. "Hmm, let's see."

And with that she put the mask on. It hadn't harmed the mage, after all. Maybe it was just superstition.

And then Lydia was gone. As was their fire, and the cold air, and the dust that covered the floor. Arith looked around in shock as they room appeared bright and clean through the eye holes of the mask. Fires burned in the braziers set into the domed roof above, smoke flowing up through the four holes left for it to escape. Arith reached out to touch one of the intact pots, and found it solid. The chests and shelves sat perfectly intact, if empty. The statues sat as they had in the destroyed incarnation of the room, just waiting to be adorned with finery. And the door out was still upright, and locked fast.

Overwhelmed, Arith took off the mask, and promptly slipped on her own bowl of dinner as the room faded at the edges, returning to its wrecked and cold reality. Lydia gasped, standing and her sword drawn. "Arith? Where... where had you gone?"

Arith looked at her, and then at the mask in her hands. "I... don't know. But I was here, and this place was intact. A moment from history, perhaps." She shivered and sat down, recovering what was left of her broth. "I think this mage's 'guides' had the right idea. Leave the mask here, because I for one would be afraid to take it from this place."

xxx

The night was a frigid one, the smoke holes in the domed roof letting in enough of the blizzard outside that they had to re-light their fire more than once as they both woke from the cold. But weathering the storm had been a good choice, as the morning broke clear and fresh, the new snow glowing white in the morning sun.

A breakfast of snow troll meat was hard on the palette and worse on the stomach, but it would conserve their own supplies, so Arith and Lydia resolved to complain mightily about the breakfast and ate it all the same. The need never to stoop to such lows again was easily agreed afterwards.

Thankfully no more trolls had appeared looking for shelter during the night, and that left Arith free to explore the amazing ruins. The stonework was hard and heavy, much like Markath had been, but the snow offered a softer edge to it, and brightened what must have been a dark, grey place in the past. Little remained in the way of intact structures, and what few entrances into the mountain Arith found were locked, except one.

"A crypt, most likely," Lydia said as she looked at the ornate, carved entranceway. "No doubt home to more trolls now, or draugr. Or both."

Arith pulled her bow from her back and pushed open the heavy stone door. "I trust you won't object it we make sport of them then?"

Clearly Lydia would have preferred to leave well alone, especially knowing that Arith's coin purse would likely end up heavier than it was once they were done, but she did not object. "Lead on, then."

The undead that did walk those hallways, as unwholesome as they were, made for a much more pleasant fight than the snow trolls had. Easy to cut down once you knew how to fight them, and unaware of all but the loudest of Lydia's clanking footfalls, they made for the kind of battle that most warriors boasted of, but few had been lucky enough to take part in without other, more dangerous complications. True, a draugr with a battleaxe could take off a man's head as well as any other attacker, but they were hardly skilled or cunning fighters. Against them, Arith could be confident without worrying for her own safety, or Lydia's.

And that complacency all but killed them both.

The most open of the tomb chambers still had a draugr archer wandering, and from the stairs Arith watched down the line of an arrow. "Last one. Not bad for a morning's good work."

The arrow did not make the unsuspecting creature fall though, or even stagger it. The steel tip simply sunk into its tough flesh, with all the power of a bee's sting against bear hide. Arith watched in shock as the draugr spun around, looking for its attacker, before running towards the exit the shot must have come from.

"Lydia, I think we should get out of here. If that is some greater powered draugr..."

Lydia nodded and, though her sword and shield were drawn, she joined Arith in backing up the stairs, and the pair had reached the top before the nimble zombie had caught sight of them. But caught them it had, and with its old ebony bow already drawn it shot.

Had it missed the pair might have escaped, or at least made a convincing chase, but instead the ancient arrow struck square into Lydia's back, piercing her steel backplate and staggering her. Arith spun around at the sound of Lydia's cry, and saw her housecarl turning, to face their poorly chosen prey.

"Arith, go!"

And for a moment Arith considered doing just that. She might have, in years gone by. But Lydia was as much her responsibility as she was Lydia's, and now the pair had fought together for too long to consider leaving her behind.

But that was not the worst of it. Seeing its target wounded, the dragr deathlord drew a sword in place of that rare bow, and with a deep rattling breath it Shouted in the dragon's tongue.

"ZUN HAAL VIK!"

Lydia's blade was torn form her hand and sent clattering down the stairs as that undead Voice shook her nerves, and Arith found her bow flying from her grip and into the chamber behind her. Disarmed, shaken, and suddenly afraid that this draugr *shared* her gifted power, Arith could only stagger back, groping for her lost weapon. She couldn't fight that monster in single combat. Not if it could rip her axe from her at a moment's notice. She needed her bow, and she needed cover from that draugr's deadly arrows.

And Lydia, bless her, had bought the time Arith needed. Ramming her shield into the undead dragon speaker was a futile gesture, but it bought a few more precious seconds for Arith to reach her bow, and fly down the stairs and into the burial chamber proper, to hide behind an embalming table and the stalagmite pillar that threatened to consume it.

Arith turned, already drawing one of the few elven craftsmanship arrows she had managed to scavenge, and it leapt from her bowstring just as the draugr finally cut Lydia down.

"Please don't be dead," Arith whispered as she fired arrow after arrow into the draugr. "I can heal you up, so don't you dare die before I'm done!"

And thankfully, in those brief glimpses she allowed herself away from her target, Lydia lay still breathing on the stairs. The dragur ignored her now she was down, and instead met Arith's arrows with its own. The archery duel was on, and her stomach tightened. She knew that hers was the inferior bow, even with its fading magics, and she lacked its unnatural strength. All that would save her was her reflexes.

But her arrows seemed to be doing so little to slow the draugr down, and eventually the shot came that she could not duck away from in time. The arrow stuck into her left shoulder with a force that knocked her on her backside, and her bow arm fell limp. Panic flooded her and she tore the arrow out as quickly as she could, howling in pain, before she could try and press a quickened healing spell into the wound.

Of course, as much as she tried, the spell would not be finished before the draugr came down the stairs to put another arrow in her, and finished her off. How could something so long dead still draw that bow with such strength? And how could it use the Voice. It wasn't fair. She hadn't even been able to prove herself to the Greybeards. "Gods damn it, heal!"

And it was then, through her own voice, that she heard the struggle. Despite the arrow in her back and the slashes to her limbs, Lydia had grasped hold of her fallen sword and stuck it deep into the draugr's knee. As Arith's spell took effect and knitted her shoulder together, Lydia climbed the draugr's body with her sword until she stood standing again, and with the creature's full attention.

"Return to your grave already, damned creature!"

Arith had never been so happy to see someone so hopelessly outmatched as her brave housecarl was just then. With the Dragr held and already drawing its sword again to finish the job, Arith could stand and shoot with all her speed and strength. The living corpse resembled a pincushion as it finally hacked Lydia away from itself, too late. It fell under the sheer weight of arrows it was stuck with now, and finally returned to Oblivion.

Arith didn't care to wait for its body to hit the ground before throwing her bow aside and preparing her healing magics as Lydia collapsed again. "If you were trying to play the hero there, it worked," Arith lectured, out of breath as she pumped restorative magica into Lydia's body. "Now promise me that you won't try anything so foolish again!"

Lydia only smiled up from where she sat, clutching Arith's glowing hands to her wounds. "I will promise to try, my Thane. Though you are just as much the fool for not fleeing. That draugr could have killed us both. I have never even heard of one so powerful."

Arith felt herself smiling as Lydia looked up at her. "I am just glad you learned the bow as well as you did, if we are to make a habit of fighting dead such as these."

Arith silently agreed. Without a steady hand and her good eye still clear, one of them at least would have died that day. "Well, killing such a monstrous haunt is a hunt to be proud of. And it was not without reward either." As the flow healing magic ebbed, Arith stepped away and down to the dead draugr, to claim its bow. "This is too great a weapon to be left in the hands of the dead."

Suddenly, as if to contradict her, a dead draugr voice echoed up from the hole in the floor of the chamber off to the side, where Arith had first spied the deathlord. Thankfully the walls of that pit where sheer, with no way for the corpse to climb up.

From the edge of the pit Arith looked to Lydia. There was a room down there. "Let us catch our breath first. Knowing what that *might* be, I think we can put an end to this task."

xxx

End it they did, and though less fraught the fight with *another* deathlord was still hard won. The room beneath could be accessed from the ruins outside, and so the pair crept in to see the sole draugr they would fight, armed not with a bow his time but an ebon greatsword. It was a small room to fight within, but Arith's voice unbalanced the deathlord long enough for Lydia to step up and begin the fight before again getting her weapon torn from her hands.

This time, however, Lydia backed off while Arith charged to the opposite wall, and the pair shot to distract the dim undead creature from one target to another. Better yet, Arith had been prepared to hold their enemy in its tracks with her voice, and the Words of Unrelenting Force, though not fully powered, bought them much time.

As did her new bow. What the ebony weapon lacked in magic it made up for in power, and even a simple iron tip could stagger the absurdly powerful creature if she drew it taught enough, and fired at just the right time.

That did not stop either of them needing healing after it was dead, but leading the thing on a merry dance around the room had been easier than trying to out-shoot its kin above.

But their victory came with one minor problem.

"Arith, have you seen my sword? That shout disarmed me again, but I cannot find where it fell now."

A simple iron sword they would have been willing to let go, but this was one of strong dwemer make, and it had cost them a pretty penny.

After twenty minutes they had scoured the cave five times, and Arith had practiced her lighting spell more times over than she had even used it before. "It *has* to be here somewhere! Even if I caught it with my Voice, it couldn't just vanish!"

xxx

Eventually they did find it, lying perched upon a rocky outcropping above the main floor where an old brazier stood, now all but inaccessible after years of erosion by water seepage. Arith could only catch it by jumping off the wall, where she found purchase on the rocks by the side of the entrance. One cut hand and a brief healing spell later, and they decided to leave the ruined Labyrinthian behind. Their fights, and the subsequent hunt for Lydia's sword, had cost them the better part of the morning.

The walkway down the pass was just as elaborate as the vaulted rear walkways of the ruins, and though a light snow had already begun to fall the climb down the zig-zagging stone stairways kept them warm. A warmth that they both needed when an unmistakable roar echoed out of the woodland beneath them.

"A dragon? Do they always attack mountainsides?"

Thankfully this one did not land on top of them, but burst from the trees to circle its prey beneath, only to swoop down and disappear again a moment later. With their lives in no immediate danger, curiosity - and in Arith's case, greed - took over, and armed with their respective bows they plunged into the tree line to see what could have been giving this dragon such a fight.

The sound of dragon's roars and smashing wood drew them right to the combat, and Arith slowed to watch the battle from a safe distance. The dragon had picked its fight with a lone giant, and incredibly the pair seemed evenly matched. If anything, Arith thought, the dragon seemed not to know how to attack a creature that it couldn't tower over so easily, it's snapping jaws tentative and testing rather than fierce or savage.

The giant on the other hand, though wounded, had no such concerns and swung its immense club with all the strength it had, knocking the dragon's head this way and that with painful sounding crunches. Whether it was afraid for its life or too stupid to react in any other way than attacking, one thing soon became clear: the giant was going to win!

With that in mind, Arith had to wonder. She wanted this dragon's soul, no doubt about it. The very idea of passing up that power was incomprehensible now. But that meant getting to the body, which in turn meant killing the giant. Arith's attention turned away from the titanic battle, and to the power she already knew rested within her breast. The last dragon she had fought, on the Throat of the World, had given up its soul, but Arith had not focused that power into understanding a Word yet. She had wanted to see what the Greybeards would teach her first, and their more... direct method of teaching had set aside the notion that the soul needed to be used right *then*. She'd had other Words to experiment with.

Now was a good chance to test one though. She still had a word etched into her mind she did not understand, and so she focused that power up into her consciousness, and to the Word.

Fire. YOL.

In understanding, she would be able to Speak.

In the distance the battered dragon did fall, leaving behind a frosted but still standing giant. The simple titan seemed mightily please with his victory, shouting out to the empty forest as if anyone but they would hear him. Perhaps it would be cruel to finish him off, but no doubt he would come to attack them in kind as soon as he saw them.

Which is exactly what the battle-drunk giant did, once Arith had approached. Before he could come to meet her, his club already aloft, Arith Shouted her new Word.

"YOL!"

The Word did not merely set him alight, but from Arith's tongue flew a roiling cloud of flame, scorching the ground and passing through the injured giant, burning him in the process and setting his meagre clothing aflame. Though not enough to kill him, it sparked fear in his eyes before an arrow from Lydia took what remained of his consciousness, and his life.

And the prize was glorious. Addictive. She had not even had to work for it this time, unlike against those deadly draugr deathlords. The Dragon's soul wrapped around her, caressed her body and her spirit, and empowered them both.

And Lydia just stood silent, in awe. And perhaps fear?

"Are you okay, Lydia?"

"... Yes, my Thane. It is nothing."

Maybe that was understandable. Arith had just spat flame, not quite like a dragon would, but close enough. And her very presence dismantled the beasts. But soon enough Lydia seemed fine again, and Arith was happy not to labour on those thoughts, lest she lead herself down a more maudlin path.

The only question after that was how to carry the beast's usable bones and scales. Lydia's pack was already full of them, and Arith had to ditch several of their less valuable supplies to accommodate for the rest.

"My Thane, I understand their value - their rarity - but these trophies do not seem to be making for good travelling companions."

"... No need to get sarcastic, 'my Housecarl'. Perhaps those Khajit traders outside Whiterun will take them."

"Would that the inspiration had struck while we were still there."

"Are you *trying* to annoy me, Lydia? You didn't suggest it either."

xxx

Though it was already afternoon by the time they found it, the main road around the fjords was a clear one, and they felt no pressure from the slowly lengthening shadows to halt their voyage another day. With only a small mining encampment and some manner of ancient dwemer lift-cage to distract them - the latter's mechanism inaccessible as far as either of them could tell - the sun was still up by the time Arith's map told them to forge away and into the countryside to find Ustengrav.

A sizable encampment of stormcloaks sat beside the route Arith had picked, but she thought better of attempting to rely upon their hospitality. They had business of their own no doubt, and Arith wanted to avoid politics for a long as she could. It was not as though she didn't have more pressing concerns of her own right now.

Concerns such as the camp made outside the sunken entrance to the tombs. Tents had been erected, a campfire still burned, and the half-dozen bodied that lay bleeding and burnt in the grass were still warm. Either a mob of bandits had turned on an unfortunate mage and his expedition, or there was some sort of archaeological coup happening there.

Though their day had been a long one, it was clear that they couldn't rest just yet. "What say we head down and be done with it? I for one would like to see what the problem is, and I wouldn't trust the hospitality of whoever returned to camp now."

Lydia already had her weapon drawn, so there was little convincing to be done. "Better to sleep soundly after a long day than turn in only to keep one eye open all night. Uh, no offence intended, my Thane."

xxx

Inside the battle still raged, bandits and thugs fighting in a three way battle with more mages and a crowd of draugr that must have been disturbed by their encroachment into the tomb. Plumes of fire and frost flew left and right, and it was difficult to see who the intended targets of that magic were supposed to be.

Eventually though, the mages proved the victors, two of their number left standing as Arith and Lydia watched from the shadows. Had that been the end of it things might have turned out better, but the arcane pair both turned at the sound of Lydia's steel boots on the stone floor, and spared not a moment before sealing their own fate. A spear of ice was returned by an arrow from Arith's new bow to the mage's forehead. And the final mage fell before Lydia's sword, somehow determined that he would still emerge victorious up until his final breath.

Lydia looked down that the carnage that cluttered the entrance to the grand tombs. "I hope these wizards were up to no good, or else we might have just killed some promising scholars."

"Don't worry. I doubt promising scholars would have greeted us with battle magic. Either these two were afraid of getting caught, or just wanted to add to their body count. I wouldn't be surprised if they had some necromantic skill between them, looking at those robes."

xxx

The upper tombs themselves were much like any other old Nord burial caves, with coffins recessed into the walls and an occasional ornate sarcophagus set out on a low step of its own. A few more draugr prowled those halls, but none like the obscene deathlords from the Labarinthian tomb.

It was in the deeper tomb that the architecture became elaborate, built into and around an enormous natural cave. Stone walkways, now crumbling, passed between the natural stone columns of the cavern, and from those bridges Arith had a clear view of the decrepit undead - draugr and skeletons both - that roamed the upper area. Most milled about aimlessly, attending to the other dead, while a few set and re-set unhealthy offering to a shrine build into one far wall.

From above it was an easy matter to return those bodies to death with a few well placed arrows, and even then when the collapsed walkways led them down to the upper tier of the cavern, the few dead that remained could not even withstand one blow of Arith's axe before collapsing at her feet.

The collapsed nature of the tombs, walkways and door arches, blocked off many areas further into the crypt but they way the Dovahkiin was meant to go was clear. A natural stone path led over the lower cavern, to a way barred with iron gates, and several a rune-carved pillars. Each gate raised as either Arith or Lydia approached magic pillar, but would close again shortly after. A man would have no time to sprint through from the distance of those carved headstones, but with her Whirlwind Shout Arith would be able to make it with little difficulty.

But before that, this side of the crypt still begged to be explored, not least because of the waterfall below, and the Word wall, as Arith had come to think of them, beside it. No draugr stood between her and another new Word of Power this time.

Fade. FEIM. Etherealness. The idea was clear, but understanding of just what that would mean still evaded Arith as the tombs around her went black, and the word etched itself into her memory. She would not power it with understanding. Not yet. It felt... a little too like becoming a ghost for her comfort. Too close to death. To retreat.

But it was a word she could learn if need be. The dragons must have had a use for it.

The use for her Whirlwind was more obvious, and had given her an idea. Not only would she be able to access the inner chambers of the tomb with it, but with a leap it would surely draw her across the collapsed upper walkways, to access the crypt further inside.

Being careful not to misjudge the distance - falling down to the lower caverns would have been crippling at best - the shout let her leap from column to column, making use of what walkway sections remained, to reach the original entrance to the lower crypts. And while there was still little of it that might be accessible, a soul gem in possession of one of the crushed draugr, and an amulet of Dibella from another was prize enough for her.

She returned to Lydia, who was once again struck dumb in awe of that latest display. Arith held out the amulet by its chain. "A gift, for your patience. Since you seem intent on standing between danger and myself, perhaps She will be kind enough to keep the scars of battle from you."

Lydia accepted the pendant with a small amount of surprise. "Um, thank you. Arith, about the inner sanctum. I will wait if I cannot follow you through, but be careful. Those gates are unlikely to be the only trial or trap."

"I shall. You need not worry about me. If it takes a Dragonborn to get through, I doubt draugr could hide there to lie in wait."

Lydia's worrying proved unnecessary though, as once Arith had finally managed to time both her Shout and her sprint - not as easy as she had first surmised - the gates did not remain closed behind her. Whatever magic powered them also gave her a way back, it seemed. Or in Lydia's case, a way to follow.

The trap within was a simple one to see, and even easier to navigate. Fire jet traps had been a favourite of many old architects to keep robbers out of tombs, and this one had evidently been commissioned to make this room as inaccessible as possible to anyone but the Dovahkiin. Every inch of the floor was covered with pressure plates, and though there may have been a path through, the fallen stone from the roof, collapsed in several places, made for good solid stepping stones.

Likwise, the giant frostbite spider that had made its lair in the tunnels above was less of a threat when lured into said flame jets, and Arith finished it with her axe, to fill her latest soul gem for good measure. Sadly an eight foot tall spider did not have as powerful a soul as Arith had hoped, but it was not as much of a waste as some. Having heard of a skeever soul trapped in the grandest of gems had made her inner mage sick at the thought of such waste.

And finally, after hacking through the creature's webbing, they came to the inner sanctum, and Jurgen Windcaller's resting place. A single walkway led across a pool to the sarcophagus, and as if to mark the gravity of the moment, four statues - either claws or abstracted dragon heads, Arith wasn't sure which - rose from the pool beneath to loom over the low bridge, water spilling over it as they did.

"Must be more magic," Lydia whispered as they descended the steps to approach.

"That, or some dwemer mechanism?"

But as they approached, a disparity hit them both. The sarcophagus was flanked by two dead draugr. What had killed them? And the sarcophagus, though ornate, lacked its top ornament. A claw should have held the horn they had been seeking, but instead a note rested in its fingers.

"What..?" Arith snatched up the note and read.

'Dragonborn.

'I need to speak with you. Urgently.

'Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn at Riverwood, and I'll meet you.

'~~A friend.'

"Bastard!" Arith threw the note to the floor and kicked at the sarcophagus, only to cry out in pain when her toes met the old stone. "We come all this way and you waltz in here, steal our prize, just to drag us back to *Riverwood*!"

Lydia sighed, picking up the note while Arith looked for some back entrance that this thief might have used to bypass the sprint and fire traps. "My Thane, please. We took a great deal of time to get here, after your revelling with that Mr Guevenne. Time enough for someone to second guess us."

"And I'll track *him* down to answer for this and all!" Arith raged, before her eyes fell upon the recessed stone wall at the rear of the room, and the doorway behind. "Damn it all. A back way in? What was the point of the trial, if there was a back way in?"

"To test those who would try to outsmart the architect. Or to allow us an exit that did not involve accidentally burning ourselves to death?" Lydia lay a comforting hand on Arith's shoulder. "Come, my Thane. We have done as we were asked, and now we must find whoever *did* take that horn. A simple venture for the Dovahkiin, yes?"

"Lydia, I'm just one woman. With or without the Voice, or this mystical 'dragon blood'. I don't want people playing me for a fool like this!"

However, Lydia's confident reply stirred that blood in her veins. "Then we had best show this 'friend' what happens when you trifle with a Nordwoman's ambitions. Come, let us return to the mage's camp and rest for the night."

xxx

The chest of treasure that rested within that hidden exit made for some small recompense after that disappointment, but Arith still lay down that night cursing within her own mind. She and her family had a bad history with the manipulations of others, and if people were going to go this far to speak to the Dovahkiin then wading through plots and favours and challenges might be all that awaited her from this point on.

At least Lydia was able to smile afterwards, because the only thing worse than Arith's own dark emotions right now would have been a similarly darkened travelling companion.

Still, the morning broke early and clear again, and the pair began their long trek back to Whiterun, and from there to Riverwood. Instead of retracing their steps, however, Arith proposed to go eastwards around the mountains this time, instead of through them. The path would be longer, but less arduous to be sure. And secretly, she hoped she might find some bandits still working from those lower mountainsides, if they hugged the mountains and kept just off the roads to make the journey quicker.

And so it was that they had barely crossed the road north-east again before such a distraction literally stumbled into their path. A trio of bandits were at each other's throats, two men ganging up on the female, and yet giving a poor showing against her obvious physical strength.

Never one to suffer a man looking down on her gender, Arith evened the odds with a well placed arrow to one of the men's heads, and after that the female bandit cut down her remaining attacker. Her scowling face, daubed viciously with woad, turned on Arith and Lydia. "Who in Dagon's name are you? Speak, or I'll cut you down where you stand!"

Arith drew her bow again. Maybe helping this woman had been a bad idea? "Hold. We come to your aid and that's the thanks we get? What just happened here?"

The bandit woman deflated with a sigh, seeming suddenly no taller or broader than Arith herself. "I was part of the gang in the ruins here. Friend of mine went crazy and stole the boss' sword. They blamed me for it. Look, I'm done here. Mop the floor with the idiots for all I care, just get out of my way."

And with that the woman took off, not even waiting to hear Arith's next question. Arith did toy with the idea of putting an arrow into her as she fled the scene, but what good would that have served? Perhaps she had learned from her mistaken allegiances now, in time to prevent them killing her.

On the dead men they found a bounty notice, from a man named Kyr; 100 gold was a lot to offer for one woman's head.

And a tempting prize for ridding this mountain path of what must have been a sizable threat, if such orders had to be handed out on paper rather than in person. To Arith's pleasure, Lydia offered no objection, and inside the entrance to the Frostmere Crypt two more bandits sat and ate, discussing the issue.

"Ra'jirr was always dragging her into these things," the male said, seemingly dismissive.

The woman seemed less sure. "But stealing the boss' sword? Did he have a death wish?"

"Who knows? That cat was crazy. She was a fool to trust him."

Arith had the thought to approach as an outsider that might be able to fix the problem, but those two were clearly set to guard against such intrusion. They were also not in the least prepared to face two Nordwomen who had already slain giants, dragons and dragon-speaking draugr. Nor were the bandits who came running at the sound of steel on iron, and the gang mage was felled in a single blow as he ran right into the path of Arith's axe.

The crypt itself was a small but complicated affair, with a mechanised walkway that had to be lowered before reaching the burial place proper, and it was in those deeper rooms that they came across the second band, unaware of what had transpired above.

"... but something's felt wrong down there recently. Eerie."

Another bandit scoffed at his fellow criminal. "Now you're sounding as crazy as that cat. Be going on about the Pale Lady next." A Pale Lady? As in, the fairy tale child-stealer? Arith had been fond of children's tales as a youth, both whimsical and frightening, and this one she remembered, if only vaguely. Jealous and covetous, but sad female spirits they were, and a warning against young boys and girls wandering off alone without protection, or taking what was not theirs to take.

Without even giving them the chance for another call to arms she shot the bandit pair, and after that had free reign to actually investigate what on earth had occurred.

The bandit leader's room was easy to find, the best kept and furnished of them all, and he had kept a journal of his progress in tunnelling through the crypt. He also thought that the fleeing girl they had come across had been their best miner. Stupid to drive her off then, whatever her crime. But he did not seem to be in his right mind as the entries went on. The 'underground forest' they had found seemed eerie to him too. And the sword he had found there he clearly liked too much, to the point of threatening murder if the Khajit asked to borrow it again. Worrisome, if the cat had actually gone and stolen it.

But several rooms down the woman Eisa's own journal lay open in the room she had fled from, and had once shared with her friend Ra'jirr. He had been suffering night terrors about that Pale Lady - that the sword their boss had claimed was hers, and must be returned.

Arith put down the diary and picked up her weapon again. "Fairy tale or not, this will only end badly for him."

The remainder of the bandits down in the excavation put up little resistance, and fighting in close quarters kept Arith's axe in her hand until she and Lydia reached the tunnel that had broken through into the 'forest'.

And it was a forest. Trees and grass flourished in the vast cavern, with the sound of water flowing and falling in the distance. It was strange to see the place looking so light without fires, lit by lichen and torchbugs. And at the entrance sat the man who must have been Kyr, gasping as his blood drained from his body, propped up on the floor. "Finally, someone came... I... The Cat... Ra'jirr... ambushed me. He's trying to take the sword back. I... can't... *gasp*"

Arith felt no need to save him. A bandit leader she would have put an arrow through deserved no such compassion. But as he died, a blue whisp that could only have been his soul floated from his body and deeper into the underground forest! Following it as fast as they could Arith and Lydia saw the Khajit with the blade in his hand, desperately trying to fight off an ethereal form. The Pale Lady, her dress floating languidly with each swing of her arms, grasped and clawed at him until he fell, only feet from the altar, his energy sapped and his life extinguished.

Arith marched forward, her heart heavy. That was a poor death for even a criminal foreigner. That Khajit had at least tried to help, if only out of fear. And whoever this Pale Lady was, she had been too maddened by rage at the theft to realise he had intended to help her. But that was ever the way with fairy tales, both fault and true - the lesson learned would never be easy, or without cost.

"Lydia, fend her off for me, please. I'll return that blasted sword to her, whether she likes it or not."

So saying they broke into a run, Lydia charging at the spirit with her shield and Arith heading straight for the fallen Khajit. It took only a moment to grab the blade and place it where it belonged, but in that time Arith could feel the glowing willow wisps around the grassy underground island sapping her energy and her magika, before in a whirl of white light both they and the Pale Lady vanished.

And that was that. No fanfare, no victory cry, but a gust of wind and all had been put right. And it had only cost a dozen or so bandits their lives.

"Eh, what a waste." Arith looked up around the cavern, now that she had the breathing space to do so. It was an absurd sight, but a beautiful one. "I wonder what the bandits were digging for."

"That, perhaps?" Lydia pointed up to one wall, and the steps that led up to a large carved wall. "Not that any of them could have used it."

Arith's jaw dropped. A Word Wall? There? She gave a cry of joy and leaped into the moat of lake water surrounding the pedestal's little island, heading straight for he wall. She didn't care how stupid that must have looked. Another Word was hers, and completely out of the blue!

It was only as the cavern around her faded into blackness that she slowed her run, lest the light headedness take her feet out from under her.

Ice! IIZ! Freezing! That... that was a word worthy of the dragons she had slain, and of her hardy Nord blood. The soul of that last dragon, who had chosen is prey poorly in a strong and foolhardy giant, opened her eyes to the meaning of that Word, and with it came the Understanding. She would breath frost now, as well as fire, and in doing so, her enemies would be locked in ice for her to tackle at her leisure.

She had no free dragon soul now in her breast, but her throat ached with anticipation of Shouting this Word. A strong Word, fitting of a Nordwoman warrior and her icy country.

Arith return to Lydia beaming, almost tempted to use it right then and there, if not for the discomfort it would surely cause her friend. And Lydia even stepped back a little, before Arith chuckled and reassured her otherwise. "Come, let us find a wolf or brigand. I have a something new to show you!"

And not only that, but the bandit leader's gold would indeed have paid a couple of hundreds in bounty, had anyone ever come to collect.

xxx

Fort Dunstad provided shelter for them that night, and clearly the civil war between Imperial and Stormcloak was hurting more than just the western edge of the country. The fort had been a bastion of safety on these long roads, or so people had said even just a month ago, but now the men and women that patrolled its walls were clearly not of either allegiance.

That the country's soldiers could weaken their strongholds enough to be taken by highwaymen, in favour of more strategic camps set against one another, was madness. At least the woman on the northern wall of the fort had the decency to warn them away, rather than just shoot Arith and Lydia down. "That's close enough. This is our road now, stranger, and you'll leave if you know what's good for you."

Maybe the bandits within the Frostmere Crypt had broken from this gang, or fled when the well armed band had taken control of the fort. Either way, Arith would have been grateful for their stay of arms, but for the new Word begging to be released from her throat and finally given form. And if the country's soldiers were too busy arguing over Kingship to protect the land's people from each other, then why should the mighty Dovahkiin not step up instead?

Taking her bow, Arith loosed an arrow as the bandit archer let her own iron tip fly, and Arith proved the better shot. That the whole gang would pour out to meet them now was a given, and Lydia stood ready with her shield at the wooden barricades beyond the gate to fend off further arrows and swords.

But before even one raiding man could get through to her, Arith stepped in front, and finally Shouted into the crowd that had assembled.

"IIZ!"

And in the Word's wake now stood not four bandits, but four statues of ice that fell unsteadily to the floor. The frost that covered them would not hold for long, the men twitched and wavered at their joints, trying to break free of that frozen skin, but the fight was already over. Inside proved no different, and even the bandit's leader, clad in scavenged plate armour, could not withstand both the force of a Nord war cry and the sight of his men laid low by a tongue that froze them rigid. He was begging for his life as Arith cut him down, but though a single man might reform, a leader of such men would always be a threat.

Perhaps that was why the title of King distracted so many from the matters of Skyrim beneath them.

No matter. He was dead now, and the beds of the fort were obscenely comfortable after days of camping.

"Lydia?" Arith lay across the room from her housecarl, watching as she removed the amulet of Dibella from her neck before lying to rest. "If you were..."

Lydia's eyes remained expectant for the question. "Yes, my Thane? If I were what?"

Arith frowned to herself. Did she really want to know which side of the conflict Lydia supported behind the wall of what Arith supposed was loyal Whiterun neutrality? Was she actually looking for guidance, direction, or just an excuse to complain about the whole pointless affair.

She sighed and turned over. "Never mind. My thoughts run without direction. Sleep well, Lydia."

"Arith? If there is a matter you wish to discuss, I am more than happy to lend my aid however I may."

Arith smiled to herself. Such a kindly voice, when it wanted to be. "It is of no matter, do not worry. We should enjoy the rest. It will be a long hike to Whiterun come sunrise."

xxx

A light, snowy morning became a bright afternoon, and Whiterun welcomed them with... an empty rock plateau, where the Khajit caravan had been set when they had left.

"Dammit! The bloody cats have moved on! Some use they are!"

Lydia seemed likewise less than pleased. "And the market won't take these bones."

"The Warmaiden or the Drunken Huntsman either. Oh, for pity's sake. You'd think a mage like Farengar might, but no, I asked him."

Lydia's eyes brightened as an idea formed. "The alchemist, Arcadia, perhaps? There must be some use for them in potion making."

As it turned out Arcadia herself had little use for them, but when the dragon's bones were offered up she could not turn down the chance to experiment with a couple. For the rest she recommended they try Belethor next door.

"A general good merchant?"

Arcadia shook her head. "Believe me, he will buy almost *anything*. He might not give you a great price, but for the rarity value alone he will take the lot, I'm sure. Oh, before you go, you do look very little pale, my dear. That might be ataxia."

Arith frowned. She got this a lot from cure vendors. "I can assure you, I am quite well. My mother was a Breton, pale as they come, and I got to see little sun as a girl. That is all."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it dear. Do take care out there, now."

Whether the woman was sorry that she'd led a sheltered childhood or that her mother had been a foreigner, Arith couldn't quite tell.

Thankfully the overly enthusiastic Belethor was more than happy to pay good gold for the dragon bones, and rather than risk bankrupting him Arith decided to keep the scales for herself for now. Since she had taken to Elven smithing well, under the Warmaiden Adrianne's guidance, maybe she could learn how to work them in the future.

But that was a lesson for another day. Arith had ignored the Companions too long now, and so fulfilling her duties to them was her next stop. Up in their compound of Jorvaskrr she found Vilkas teaching the younger Ria the ways of better stepping in with her sword, and so rather than intrude she sought out Aela for her next task.

Taking an early meal, the painted huntswoman smiled at Arith's offer. "Still eager to please, this is good. Skjor might be right about you. He has something special planned for you though. Better talk to him."

Really? After only one task in their employ, and already the stern and frankly rather scary warrior man though to put her through some greater trial? Perhaps news of her doings at High Hrothgar had spread north, because it could surely not be from her meagre showing for the Companions so far.

Still Skjor welcomed her company with open arms - a familiarity he had lacked when they had met last. "Ah, there you are!"

Arith nodded, bowing her head a little more deferentially than she was comfortable with. "You... wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I have something a little different planned this time. But it's not for everyone to hear. Meet me in the underforge tonight, we will speak more."

The underforge was, apparently, something of a secret among the companions, and the source of at least some magic that powered the Skyforge above, where the companions had their weapons and armour made. What he could have to tell her there rather than in Jorrvaskr proper Arith didn't know, and something in her stomach squirmed at the prospect of secrets between the Companions, but it was a feeling she put down to nerves. Something she could distract herself from easily enough.

Since they would stay the rest of the afternoon Arith gave Lydia her leave to return to the Dragonsreach and report to the Jarl, while Arith resolved to butt her head against Njada's once again and train with her.

And Njada warmed quickly at the request. "Back for another pounding, eh, new-blood? Good. I'll make a worthwhile shield-sister out of you yet!"

xxx

That night, under the clear moon, Arith met with Skjor beneath the Skyforge. The old grizzled warrior carried himself proudly, despite their slipping out and into dark. "Are you prepared?"

Arith watched as he opened the rock face before them, revealing a passage beneath. "What is this place?"

"Here's all you need to know. Jorvakrr is the oldest building in Whiterun, and the Skyforge was here long before the hall was. And the Underforge taps an ancient magic older than men or elves. We bring you here to make you stronger, new blood. Now let's move on."

And as he led her inside, Arith's blood turned cold. There in the small earthen pocket stood a small pedestal, and next to it a towering werewolf. A werewolf that wore Aela's paints across its furred muzzle. Oh, by the Nine Divines, came her horrified thoughts. How had I not remembered?"

"I'm glad you came." Skjor spoke like a proud father now. "It's been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our number. That pitiful ceremony behind the hall does not befit warriors like us. You are due more honours than some calls and feasting."

He gestured to the werewolf that stood beside him. "I would hope you recognise Aela, even in this form. She has agreed to be your forebear. We do this in secret because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we have been granted."

It was a rift indeed. With the elder wishing to be free of his curse, Skjor felt that their 'blessing' had been undermined, and so he had taken the matter of bringing in newcomers himself.

"To reach the heights of the Companions, you must join us and share the blood of the wolf. Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?"

Arith just stared into those confident eyes, and those of Aela the beast, and felt her heart tremble. She was already something other than human. Something more than a Nord woman. That was hard enough to reconcile in her mind, and in her spirit. And these people - people she had come to call friends - now asked her to abandon her body as well. To embrace the anger and frustration in her breast that had led her to slaughter the bandits of Fort Dunstad, and now do so with claws and teeth instead of axe, shield and bow. To feel the blood of her victims on her own tongue.

Like the dragon that had devoured those brave guardsmen of Whiterun?

"I... I can't. I'm sorry, but I h-have other dut-"

Skjor nodded, his eyes closing in disappointment. "Then it is your choice. We will not force you. But to join the circle, your blood must be as ours. Meet us here when you *are* ready, shield-sister."

Arith could only turn away, to leave the beast-woman standing by the altar, her chosen task unfulfilled. What would Skjor and Aela say of her now? It took every ounce of courage in her bones not to run to the Dragonsreach, and to Lydia, until she was out of the underforge, and its bestial inhabitants could not witness her flight.

xxx

The night was thick, and the crickets loud as Arith and Lydia reached Riverwood. Arith hadn't had the stomach to go back to Jorrvaskr after that, and so she had pulled Lydia from her bed to make the final push towards their destination under the cover of darkness.

When Lydia had asked, Arith could only reply that there was more to the Companions than they showed. She wanted to leave before their quiet conflicts could rise, and they surely would if Arith stayed in Whiterun.

So it was that, tired and sore after their march from the north and from the training Arith had undertaken afterwards, they reached the Sleeping Giant Inn, eager to find rest at last.

Delphine the innkeeper was still awake, despite the hour, clearing away the last of her chores and her drunken patrons. "You want the attic room, eh? Well... we don't have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left. Make yourself at home."

So they did. They had both undressed, eager to take advantage of their bed, when Delphine entered without even a knock at their door. "So you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about. I think you were looking for this."

And in her hands was a horn. She offered it up to Arith, who could only stare at it. The horn of Jurgen Windcaller? Arith took it, tiredness numbing the surprise.

Delphine beckoned them, both still in their rough night-dresses, to follow. "We need to talk."

Leading them to her own room and ensuring the door was closed behind them, the surprising innkeeper led them to her wardrobe, and pushed at the back panel. To Arith and Lydia's amazement, the whole thing slid open, revealing a stone passage down to a hidden cellar, where Delphine stood waiting for them over an old, well marked map. Another hidden room of secrets.

"The greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn. I hope they're right."

It was only then that Arith found her voice again. "*You're* the one who took the horn?"

Delphine smiled. "Surprised? I guess I'm getting good at my harmless innkeeper act."

It made no sense to Arith. "Why the cloak and dagger act? The jumping through hoops. Stealing the horn just so speak to me?"

"I can't be too careful. Thalmor spies are everywhere." Delphine, it seemed, was paranoid in the extreme.

Arith, however, had no time for such nonsense. "You had *better* have a good reason for dragging me through all of this."

"It was the only way I could make sure you weren't a Thalmor trap. I'm not your enemy. I already *gave* you the horn. Just hear me out."

"You'd better start explaining. Fast."

At that, Delphine - also clearly tired - exchanged her honest tone for one that turned shirty. "I'll explain *what* I want *when* I want, got it? You'd already be dead if I hadn't liked the look of you when you walked in here. But I had to know if the rumours about you were true. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you... well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are dragonborn that is. But before I tell you any more, I have to be sure I can trust you."

The story, when they finally extracted it from Delphine's tight lips, was not short. According to her and her unnamed fellows, the dragons of Skyrim had never been gone. They had been dead, killed off centuries ago by her predecessors. And now something was bringing them back to life. They need the Dovahkiin, the only one who could permanently kill a dragon by stealing its soul, to stop it.

The stone Arith had given to Farengar Secret-Fire - was he a conspirator too? - had been a map of dragon burial sites, and that map had somehow found its way into Delphine's hands. And from her own investigations those ancient burial mounds had been turning up empty.

"And I've figured out the pattern; Where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and we're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Kynesgrove is the next. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it."

Arith stared at her with angry, exhausted eyes. "And if I'm done with your games?"

The very idea seemed at odds with Delphine's expectations. "I can't wait around for you to make up your mind and do the right thing. I'll meet you at Kynesgrove. Don't waste time getting there."

And with that she stalked out of her cellar, to wake and tell her inn staff that she would be leaving for a trip east. Arith and Lydia merely looked to one another before following, and after that Arith was not above pocketing the coin purse that sat openly in Delphine's room as they left as some petty revenge. Presumptuous wench.

And while Delphine clearly intended to set out that night, Arith was damn well going to make use of the bed she had purchased for the night.

Once they were beneath their respective sheets, Lydia spoke, concern in her voice. "Will you really not be going? I might not like that woman, but she could be killed if there really is any truth in her suggestions."

Arith scowled. "Oh, we'll go there alright. That dragon's soul is *mine*. And according to my map, Kynesgrove is near both Witchmist grove and Morvunscar, and I think if Mr Sam Geuvenne is still waiting around for my eventual appearance then he is due a piece of my mind as well. But I'll be going in my own time, my own way, and if either of them dislike it they will have to live without the help they say they so desperately need from me. The greybeards set me a task, and I fully intend to replay them for their teachings before I do *anything* else."

And then her ire was spent. The journey back to the Throat of the World, and then on east, would also provide a much needed distraction from the Companions and their offer. And her own nagging worries about her powers, and her humanity.

"You will accompany me, won't you Lydia?"

"Of course, my Thane. My duty would not have me do otherwise."

Arith nodded, inwardly glad for those words, and closed her eyes to try and catch what little sleep the night had left to offer. "Duty or not, I thank you, my friend. I would worry to lose the only one I have."

"Then it is well that I intend not to get left behind again, my Thane. No matter how inebriated you manage to get in the future."

"Just... just sleep, Lydia. By the Nine Divines, just sleep."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

Please leave a review with any comments and constructive criticism you may have. They are always greatly appreciated, and there is no better reward for a writer than to hear back from the readers.

(c) Nutzoide 2012


	5. Come Hell or High Magic

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 5: Come Hell or High Magic

The south road around The Throat of the World turned out to be the quickest route to Ivarstead by far, and their walk through the foothills was much less strenuous than Arith remembered it being as a child. Of course, her legs had been much smaller then, and her eyes ever drawn to the looming mountain above and the grand pine trees rather than the edge of the next rise, or the wildflowers that lined the route.

Even Helgen proved to be no problem at all, the burned wreck of the town now locked tight. There had been fires burning from within as they had passed, and burned bodies mounted on stakes outside, but no sign of movement within. Leave them to it, Arith had said. Though they were undoubtedly unsavoury types who had taken possession of the town, if they wanted the husk that it had become then they were welcome to it. Arith was not willing to waste more time on such people, especially when it was the walk she needed to keep her mind occupied, and not another spree of bandit butchery.

And the walk was beautiful. The mountain road led through to Ivarstead with little to bother them along the way.

By late afternoon the fog had rolled in, and Arith and Lydia had both been keeping watch for a layover to pass the night away. Thankfully travellers had been provided for by the shack that sat little more than halfway between Helgen and Ivarstead, which some enterprising alchemist had converted into his own private work hut, given the dearth of traffic going down the road of late.

Sadly, the man himself seemed to be long gone, leaving his belongings behind. Whether frightened off by something or someone, or simply a victim of the local bears, his supplies had not yet been stolen, but the diary he'd left had not been used in quite some time.

Lydia seemed grateful to remove her boots again. They had been travelling almost solidly for weeks now, with only a few days to relax here and there, so Arith couldn't blame her. That they had both avoided getting any blisters was a godsend, and fortunate beyond belief.

Arith could only smile at her own words as she broke the silence. "Yes, this place will do for the night. Those toes are looking forward to greeting the Throat of the World again, I hope."

"Mark my words, my Thane. I will be ready for the climb. And for any more rampaging bears."

It was nice to be able to relax for an evening, instead of making camp from scratch. The fire took little prompting to light, and soon roast rabbit was sitting in their bowls, and mead in their mugs.

"Arith, what is it you expect of the Greybeards, now you have their artefact? Will you stay with them as student?"

Sitting on her stool by the fire Arith could only shrug. "I don't know. They seemed eager enough to have me there, but beyond divulging their knowledge of the dragons' Words I don't know what their teachings could offer. Not that I would turn them down. But if they spend their decades in meditations, trying to understand the Words and contemplating their Voice... Do you see me as a monk?"

Lydia shook her head, amused by her own thoughts. And possibly a little ashamed of them. "If you forgive me, my Thane, I often do not know what you might be. Warrior, hunter, healer-priest, mage... Dragonborn. All I truly know is that you are Thane of Whiterun, and I am your housecarl."

"Thane of Whiterun, and yet I have spent barely three days within its walls at any one time."

"That does not mean that the title is undeserved, Arith. Men, and women, of great importance do not always have duties that tie them to their Jarls' cities."

xxx

The climb was as arduous as Lydia remembered it, but despite their tiredness her Thane wasted no time in continuing her lessons once they were there. Once again, Lydia contented herself to watch as the old men conveyed their knowledge unto her, both with Arngeir's words and the other men's powerful Voices. They intended to Speak to her as they would one another, after Arith had mastered the Shout of Unrelenting Force, but what followed looked dangerous and painful.

The Words that flowed from their mouths were not Shouts, but full spoken language, and yet the lines of draconic syllables shook the stone walls around them, and staggered Arith as she stood between them all. Less a formal greeting, and more a verbal battering.

But Arith weathered the assault, and Arngeir bowed to her respectfully once they were done. "Dovahkiin. You have tasted the voice of the Greybeards, and have passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you."

For all her book learning though, Arith still had to ask what it had all been about, and Arngeir humoured her. "We spoke the traditional words of greeting to a Dragonborn who has accepted our guidance. The same words were used to greet the young Talos when he came to High Hrothgar. Before he became the Emperor Tiber Septim."

Talos? The man who ascended to Godhood in the eyes of all but the elven supremacist Thalmor? Lydia's jaw dropped as she listened from the sidelines.

"What did you actually say?" Arith asked, as if it had been nothing.

"Ah, I sometimes forget that you are not versed in the Dragon tongue, as we are. This is a rough translation: Long has the stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you, in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, Dragon of the North, hearken to it."

But though Arith was eager to learn more, Arngeir and the Greybeards seemed reluctant to teach too quickly. It was a philosophy that Lydia had heard the guard instructors use often with the younger and over-eager recruits. Yes, it was glorious that their brothers and sisters were out battling giants and dragons, and that staying behind in Whiterun seemed shallow by comparison, but until their skills were tempered with experience the eager use of such talent was little more than a death sentence. True warriors did not fear death, but neither would they throw their lives away without making their mark.

But, Arngeir admitted, there were Words of the Dragon tongue to be found across Skyrim. The Greybeards could hear their echo, and seeking such words out, learning them slowly, one by one, would be trial enough. One they could hear on the northern edge of the country, up the trade roads past Ustengrav, within the ruins of High Gate. That would be a fitting journey to make, for a fitting reward. Perhaps those words would become her Thane's new calling, taking her ever further from a household in Whiterun. Especially now that she appeared to have fled her place among the Companions for some worrisome, unspoken reason.

And it was then that Lydia understood what lay before her. The hopes and uncertainty fell away. She was a wanderer now, for the sake of her Thane. She never would live in Whiterun again, most likely. And strangely, if it meant that she was a part of Arith's destiny, a shield between the Dragonborn and those who would harm her, that would not be a bad life at all. A worthy character for a tale not yet written.

"Wind guide you, Dovahkiin."

xxx

For her part, Arih was a little disappointed that their visit to the Throat of the World was so brief. It was a hell of a climb to make just to spend a single night there, and then be told there was nothing more they could teach that exploring and learning for herself could not provide, and at a more appropriate time. She had even been tempted to beg, if only for the knowledge and understanding of the few words that she *had* found herself, such as the breaths of ice and fire, but Arngeir had remained unswayed. Fate would deliver them to her if she would need them, and her own determination would if not.

So it was that they returned to Ivarstead by the following afternoon, with Arith eager for something - anything - to occupy her mind, and take her thoughts away from the destinations that Arngeir and the dragon hunter Delphine had set her, both so far away from Ivarstead and each other.

It was only at the inn that the answer came to her, looking at the wary innkeeper. The nearby barrow was haunted, according to him. If there was anything that could keep her mind from wandering, it was a mystery.

xxx

To Arith's surprise the barrow lay within the town itself, and even among the upper mound of stone and earth the bodies of the town's ancestors lay displayed respectfully in their coffins. Or as respectfully as could be done for bodies that were now little more than bones.

"And you worry about my treatment of the dead?" Arith asked, while Lydia paid her respects to the open coffins. "Would these men not be happier buried *beneath* the earth?"

Lydia didn't seem to mind the grisly display though. "It was not so uncommon a custom, to venerate them like this. And here they can be guarded from the reach of the Daedra. I would not be surprised if the crypts beneath are crawling with the undead because they could not be guarded so well."

"True. Ghosts should be the least of anyone's worries for the dead."

But, no sooner had they stepped into the carved halls beneath, the voice drifted up from below. "Leave this place... Leave this place..."

Arith stopped short. There really was a ghost? "Perhaps that old man was right."

As they continued on, however, the voice continued, insistently.

"Leave... Leave... *Leave*..."

Arith frowned. That was a little too insistent. "Lydia, please keep watch. I'm going to *scour* this place."

xxx

The barrow's top level was small, but festooned with all manner of mechanical puzzles and traps for the unwary or the rushed to fall prey too. In fact a slow and methodical opening of doors spared Arith from both a dart trap and jets of arcane flame, both of which assumed she would be marching on boldly, and thus were triggered far too early to pose a threat.

Though they still startled. "I think," Lydia finally said after they had waited for the flamethrowers to die down, "That this barrow is warded less to keep us from venturing deeper, and more to stop those within its depth returning. I doubt draugr would ever have the presence of mind to successfully escape all this."

The door downward, though, caught Arith's eye immediately, and she knew that the undead would not have found their way up regardless. "A claw seal! Like the one at Bleak Falls barrow!" Excitement almost overwhelmed her. "Those animal sigils, like we saw at the standing stones. *This* was where I first saw them. Just like this. There will be a jewelled treasure to open the door, with the lock inscribed upon it. Like a claw, or talon. It must be here somewhere. Come, we have to find it!"

It was in that haste that Arith reached the last chamber in this small upper crypt, and came face to face with their ghost. He stood there with angry lines crossing his translucent brow. With a twitch of his hand all too real lightning leapt forward, and struck Arith square in the chest.

Thankfully the spell seemed not to be enough to topple her, and while Lydia charged past, Arith drew her axe. Even if the blade would not work, a Soul Trap enchantment should make fast work of an antagonistic spirit. Or so she hoped.

Except that she did not seem to need it. Lydia's shield smacked the ghost's face with an audible clank, and as both she and Arith brought their weapons down onto him the ghost recoiled back, blood spraying from his wounds!

"Only a fool tries to kill the dead," came his weak taunt, but swords worked, and the ghost bled, and if he bled then Arith could kill him. He did fall, rarely given the chance to cast his spells with the pair of them attacking at such close quarters, and as he hit the floor a wave of green magic erupted from him, leaving behind an all too corporeal body.

Looking down at the dead Dunmer, Arith huffed and healed her shock burns. "I think the innkeep is going to want to know about this."

xxx

Indeed, the innkeeper was floored when the pair of them returned, not only triumphant, but bearing the dead elf's journal, chronicling his search for the self same claw that Arith had failed to find down there, and his eventual descent into madness as he began to believe his own ruse. "I can't believe this... It was all just a fabrication of this Wyndelius character? I can't believe we were so stupid." He sighed, clearly frustrated by having all that worry come to naught. "Well, the least I can do is give you something for taking care of him. That madman might have has as much luck as you girls, if only he had been sociable about it."

He left for his room, only to return a moment later bearing an ornate statuette. Of a sapphire claw.

"If you won't accept it as payment, consider it a gift. You've earned whatever it wins you, I think."

xxx

That night was hellish for Arith, trying to sleep when the key to a possible Word was sat within her pack, and she rose to breakfast as early as she could to begin their journey below the barrow.

As Lydia had suspected, the place swarmed with draugr and skeletons, but most were weak with age, and did not stand up to Arith's arrows or Lydia's sword. Even those capable of spell casting did not last long.

But what the undead lacked in power, they made up for in numbers. None had ventured into these depths for centuries, most likely, and it seemed as though every one of the interred had succumbed to whatever curse animated them.

It was in the penultimate burial chamber that Arith finally stood, more than a dozen bodies of the dead shot through or cut down by her blade and that of her housecarl. "Any more! Have you done? If I need more arrows, just say as much and I'll oblige you, wretches! I need no beast-powers to best the likes of you!"

Lydia surprised her with a word, and Arith spun around, only to see a worried look on her face. "My Thane, there are no more coffins. They are done."

Arith looked around the large room, counting up the bodies and coffins in her head. "Of course. Right. Let us be moving on then. This place has lost its charm for me."

xxx

It was in the deepest chamber that Arith finally found her prize. A new word waited to be learned, and learn it she did. It was a quiet word, one of peace and pacification, but even if she had wished to Understand it she would need to soul of another dragon from which to draw out that Understanding.

And if she could acquire one - no doubt there were more to be had, with Delphine's supposed dragon to awaken yet - would she not wait for a word more... bold? More fitting of a Nord warrior woman. Perhaps. Or perhaps peace was just what she needed now. With dragons and werewolves banging at her door, would the chance to befriend not also be a worthy one?

"So, do you feel recovered now, my Thane?"

Arith sighed. It was a little bit of an anticlimax, but yes, she felt better now. Even if the Word would never be spoken by her, the descent had not been in vain. Many of the draugr had been buried with soul gems, now filled with the remnants of their own mortality. A collection greater than Arith had ever expected to amass when she had first leant over Farengar's work table.

"Somewhat. Thank you, Lydia. Let us find the sunlight again. The stale air down here does us no good."

xxx

Three days of travel first east and then north, across the high trail from the Rift up into Eastmarch, was met with fair weather and little hassle from either highwaymen or wildlife. A single attack by bandits posing as victims of their craft was all that marred a strong, pleasant journey. Camping out at night was agreeable in Arith's mind, as long as the route was not prey for such people.

And then they hit the volcanic plains. Vast swathes of land covered by grey-black rock did little for Arith's eye, but many Nords considered it a beautiful place. Close to the primal things of nature, and rich in mineral deposits and natural hot springs.

And giants. The road took them up to those rocky plains on the third day, and skirted so close to a giant camp as to be all but suicidal in Arith's mind. A dragon could set you alight and tear your armour to shreds, but it would have difficulty killing a man in one go without devouring him whole. A giant's club on the other hand would send even the stoutest Nord's body sailing bonelessly through the air like a child's plaything if the great brutes ever managed to hit squarely with those great sweeping blows.

Perhaps the only reason Arith and Lydia weren't spotted or heard by the giants or their mammoths was the rain that opened up onto them the moment they had entered the rock-plains. Sneaking by seemed to work, up until the mammoths decided that the trees on the other side of the road looked tastier, and so up and crossed within only a dozen yards of Arith and Lydia's crouched forms. And they brought their caretaker giant with them.

Had that been all Arith would have been content to wait the titans out, but no, that was not all that the Divines had in store. Sprinting between the migrating mammoths came a low, green figure, a blade drawn in each hand! The Argonian struck Arith before she even had time to ready her shield, never having thought to look away from the behemoths just yards in front of them, and it was Lydia's timely intervention that allowed Arith to recover and draw her axe to put up a fight in return, preying all they while that their fracas would not alert the giant ahead.

And miraculously, it didn't. The Argonian woman fell leaving nothing on her but her armour, weapons, and a note from the woman who signed herself as Astrid. In the back of her mind Arith wondered if this assassin master hired beast-women exclusively for some purpose, being that they were among the more unwelcome guests by the reckoning of most Skyrim natives, but rather than dwell on that she and Lydia made a bolt from the road across the volcanic rocks. It was not worth the risk that the giant or its mammoths had been disturbed by the battle.

Under most circumstances Arith would have considered that unwise, leaving the road for the unexplored badlands, but though her map reading had not always been good, her first destination in this holding was within that forest. Witchmist grove, and the *thing* Arith hoped that her drunken revels of a week prior had not led her to.

Arith looked back at the edge of the treeline, and thankfully the mammoths had chosen not to follow. "That... was an encounter I could well have done without."

Out of breath from sprinting in her steel plate, Lydia agreed. "Should we ever meet this assassin mistress, I would like to have words with her on her agent's imprudent timing before I run her through."

xxx

The shack located in the Witchmist grove was hard to miss, once you started looking for the wood rather than the trees. It hardly seemed a 'romantic' place, as Ysolde has described from Arith's drunken tale.

And sitting on the porch was a hagraven, a pestle and mortar working within its long, taloned fingers. In Arith' mind, there was no woman left to such creatures. They had abandoned their right to womanhood once they had twisted their flesh into such bird-like shapes.

The smallest part of Arith was curious. What had led her and her fellow drunken reveller to think that engaging her to a *hag* of all things would be a good idea? For what purpose? And how had Arith managed it? Appealed to the crone's vanity, or greed, or - Mara forbid - whatever twisted emotion passed for love among such warped women?

But the rest of her didn't care, and wanted to think upon it no more. She notched an arrow to her bow, and shot the witch-woman in the head from sixty feet. Even that on its own was not enough to kill it, but the hagraven could not both spot its attacker and bring its magic bear before Arith had put another two arrows in the thing, and then stepped up to meet its mad charge with her axe.

Lydia had her arms ready, but hadn't needed them. Arith's own frustration had been enough this time. And Arith could not wrest the gold ring from the witch's talons before Lydia spied it.

"So, this was your blushing bride after all. Such a shame, the things drink will do."

"Be quiet, Lydia," Arith rasped back. She was as game for a good joke any anyone, but this was a step too far. If Sam had needed to take advantage of her attraction to pretty women, why had this would-be fiancee not been in the least bit pretty! A *hagraven* of all things!

And the ring did not look all that valuable either. Has Ysolde made a mark of her? The little band of gold looked to be worth barely a hundred coin, when the trader had asked nearly two thousand for it!

"Well, the ring is yours again, regardless. And this poor twisted wretch is dead, for better or worse. Very likely better, given what I know of hagravens and their arcane plots."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

And she was.

xxx

They did not linger in Witchmist, in case their dead hag was not the only resident. Kynesgrove lay only an hour to the north, through the forest to meet the eastern road once again, so Arith wasted no time in setting to, after everything of any worth had been stripped from the hag's shack. They would still make it well before sundown, and that would give them ample time to find Delphine. Enough to give her a chance to prove her fantastical theory.

The snow set in again as they left the forest, and had turned heavy by the time they reached the village. Though by village, they really meant a farming and mining camp, with a single tavern as the only real building to be found. Perhaps not uncommon in a settlement with less than a dozen workers to run it, but disappointing. Hopefully the tavern still had a bed to rent.

Except there was no-one to be found, either in the tented farming camp or the tavern. A single woman cowered in front of the wooden inn, but fled up the mountain road and into the snow before Arith could even call a greeting, or ask what was wrong.

Because something was *very* wrong. Only a fool abandoned their only shelter in the middle of a snowstorm. Perhaps the town had taken refuge in the mine?

It was as she and Lydia looked after the woman that they saw it. A dragon, its wings blasting the snow to and fro as it flew hovering over the hill behind the camp. Its jaws opened, and a thunderous string of Words echoed out across the mountains. Words Arith could not hope to recognise; they were too many and too fast.

Arith's heart dropped into her stomach. Were they were too late? "Damn it all! That crazy inn-wench was right! Lydia? Still eager to face these beasts, I hope!"

And Lydia's sword was already in her hand. "As long I still stand, I'll be ready, my Thane!"

"Then let's hope there are farmers left to save!"

It was as they charged up the hill, weapons drawn, that the dragon's words halted and a brilliant column of light erupted from the hilltop, parting the clouds and sending the snow scattering away to nothing. The bodies of Stormcloak soldiers lay upon the path, clawed and roasted, as the dragon above simply hovered. Not a single man or woman remained standing, but at least they were fighting men that had died, and not farmers or miners.

Arith wasted no time. Whatever magic that dragon was working could be no good, and several arrows struck its hide before the creature had finished its ritual. And yet the dragon seemed not to care in the slightest. It took the pin pricks in its stride, to speak one final line of its spell.

And the hilltop exploded in a cloud of dirt and snow. Arith and Lydia staggered back, and the sound of wings above them grew heavier in their beating. The dragon shot Arith a contemptuous look and it wheeled around, leaving the site before Arith could find her feet again and draw another arrow to her bow.

But while that dragon's flight rankled, more urgent was the hulking form that drew itself from its earthen tomb within the now exposed hilltop. Another dragon, made of nothing but animate bones, roared as it emerged from the earth.

"By the Nine..."

The air prickled around them, growing warm, and lines of burning magic began to trace through the air, leaving behind them scales and sinew, knitting the long dead dragon back together as its regenerating corpse lumbered towards them. And as its eyes grew from their sockets it spoke. Not in the language of dragons, but in northern tongue.

"I am Sahloknir. Hear my Voice, and despair."

Arith growled and drew her bow, her arrow aimed right between the dragon's new eyes. "And I am named Ysmir, by the Greybeards at the Throat of the World! Hear *my* voice, dragon, and know that I will *not* fear you! FUS RO DAH!"

Her Shout was the rallying cry, staggering the dragon even on its four great legs, and Lydia charged in with her shield held high and her sword ready to take on this Sahloknir's jaws. Any retaliation from the dragon was halted as Arith's arrow leapt into its forehead, and as they attacked a third figure in dark armour, a blade in each hand, slammed into the dragon's side.

"Delphine? Where has she been hiding?" Arith nocked another arrow, and shouted out to their new warrior. "Bait it around, or else it will roast you!"

Lydia already had that worry in hand, as when the dragon did spew its fire over the pair it was she who had taken its attention, allowing Delphine to circle away from the flaming jet. Arith shot again, now concerned to have this beast killed as quickly as possible, before even Lydia's considerable stamina gave out. And yet, her housecarl fought on from behind her shield, as if in no danger from the blast at all. Either that was truly divine determination, or she knew she would survive it long enough for the beast to fall.

And fall it did. With Lydia and Delphine determined to hold its full attention the dragon Sahloknir did not even have a chance to close on Arith herself, and her ebony bow had greater bite than the ones that had felled past dragons. Though grand and fierce, the battle lasted mere moments.

And as the creature fell, Arith prepared herself for what was to come, striding triumphant to the body

"I'll be damned, you did it!" Delphine remarked, pulling her armour back into place after the struggle. "Wait, something's happening!"

Oh yes. Something's happening alright. Something wonderful beyond words. And you doubted me?

As the soul of the burning tyrant came to sit warm and full in her chest, Arith turned to Delphine. "So?"

"Gods above! So you really are... I owe you some answers, don't I? Go ahead. What do you want to know? Nothing held back."

The first question was simple. "These resurrecting dragons. How did you know about all this?"

"The map-stone you recovered, and tales from travellers, and some investigation on my part. But I didn't expect a dragon to be here already, or to be the tool behind their revival. This is the first one I've actually seen on the ground."

Why would anyone even *want* to see such a beast so close? "Who the hell *are* you, Dephine? What's your role in all this?"

At that, the woman grew serious. "I am one of the last members of the blades. A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest of all dragonslayers. For the last 200 years, since the last dragoborn emperor, the blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that the dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them.

"The first thing we need to do is figure out who's *behind* the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is."

What followed was the most astonishing conspiracy theory Arith had ever come across, and she doubted she would ever hear the like again. According to Delphine the Thalmor were the obvious culprit behind the entire phenomenon, instigating dragon attacks somehow to both weaken the Empire and keep the civil war going. Including that one dragon's timely attack on Helgen, to facilitate the escape of Ulfric Stomcloak. Yet she had no proof, not a single shred. Just her gut, and her theories. Granted, Arith had no more love for the Thalmor and their fanatical elitism than any other human in Skyrim, but to accuse them of some grand scheme involving controlling dragon attacks?

Yet, this woman had been right about the dragons' revival. And she *did* hope to find proof of her theory, by breaking into the Thalmor embassy. Not that she knew how, but if Arith would meet her in Riverwood they would be able to come up with something, Delphine was sure.

That, however, was not enough to sell Arith on the expedition. "And if I won't be held at your beck and call? I am no noble, and I have no place in stealing through an embassy."

Dephine's disappointment showed clearly on her face, but her eyes remained strong. "Then may the Divines help us all, if you won't. Keep an eye on the sky, Dragonborn. Without you, this is only going to get worse. Meet me at my inn when you are ready to do the right thing. Before too many more of Skyrim's sons and daughters die."

xxx

Thankfully the workers of Kynesgrove had locked themselves safely within their mine when the first dragon had appeared, and so they were happy to provide dinner and a pair of beds before Arith and Lydia moved on. Though rattled, the innkeeper swore to pass on the tale of Arith's heroic deeds to any and all that passed through from that day forward, and after the talking down Delphine had inflicted upon her Arith was more than happy to detail her and Lydia's more heroic exploits in greater detail.

The morning that followed saw them bid the place a happy farewell, and while the wind was cold and the sky grey, the pair had a new destination not too far away now. Past the Stormcloak city of Windhelm and across the White River to Morvunskar.

And as they went the snow set in hard. Wrapped in furs and cloaks over their armour, it was a long, slow trudge that took them over the still-flowing river, and to the steep hills looming over the road on the west bank.

"Hail friend!"

The voice came from the bank by the road, three men camping in the snow, and wearing little more than town clothes!

"It's good to see another merry soul enjoying this fine day!"

Arith stopped dead to regard the trio. "Gods man, it's snowing. Practically a blizzard!"

The speaker of the three seemed not to care, and raised a bottle in his hand. "Ah, but you look tired. Come, share a tent and a bottle of Honningbrew mead with me!"

Arith looked to Lydia, who only looked as baffled as Arith herself. And of all the offers she had been made in the last weeks, this absurd man came along to provide the one that seemed most reasonable. Any offer of shelter and drink to sit out the worst of the snowstorm, if only beneath these men's flimsy tarps, was not one to pass up. "Surely. In fact," She dumped her pack into the snow, and retrieved one of her own supply from among the clothing and scavenged spoils of battle. "Why have only one bottle, when you can have two?"

The man's face lit up, and he bid them both over, animated as a jester. "Ysmir's beard, you're one after my own heart!"

Arith joined them happily, unstopping her bottle, while Lydia followed at a more normal pace, to sit beside her. "As long as you are content *not* to tour the country again, Arith. I don't relish *another* chase when we are so close to the answers for the last one."

"Lydia, please, put the bridles away and have a drink with us to take the chill from this snow. I promise to stay mostly sober, if only so that none of these men drown themselves in the river accidentally!"

And so they passed a snowy midday drinking and telling tales that even the most boastful of fishermen would not have believed.

xxx

That Morvunskar was a ruin was no secret to any from the hold of Windhelm. Its hard, stone fortifications had been breached both by weapons and by weather many decades ago - Arith didn't know how long exactly - but since then all manner of beasts and men had taken claim of its intact inner fort in turn.

And whoever now resided in this place had not wanted company. Arith stood amidst the cut and pierced bodies of a half-dozen conjurers and wizards, healing the frost burns and flesh wounds their frozen projectiles had put through both herself and Lydia. And that was after nearly being roasted by the arcane fire traps installed in what remained of the entrance gate.

"Who cares who they were Lydia? Wizards such as these are a menace. They would burn alive any woman who enters without even caring why they approach? These are no sane scholars of magicka."

Lydia nodded darkly "On that we can agree. And I would expect that their bulk lies within the fort. These men were just gambling and drinking the snows away. Much like ourselves."

"At least our company was hospitable." Arith finished exhausting her magicka for the moment, and took up her bow again. "Loot them for all they are worth and let us get inside quietly. I will have no qualms about putting arrows into their backs after this welcome. Why Sam chose here of all places to meet... Unless these men have killed him already."

Inside two more of the mages worked a forge, surrounded by bottles of wine and spirits, lamenting their chores. "I swear, they're making me do this for a laugh. At least I'm not dealing with the prisoners down below."

His female companion clearly agreed with that sentiment. "Yeah. I don't know how I feel about what goes on down there."

"I bet Naris gets a kick out of it. Nasty fellow he is."

That was all Arith needed to hear. They might not have been as crazed as the men outside, or those downstairs, but they'd made their choice, and a discreet arrow to each of their heads put them down quickly.

The cabal below was less simple. While torch lit halls provided plenty of shadowy hiding holes for Arith to shoot from, it was clear that as soon as one half-competent mage realised he was under attack and put up a protective ward the battle would become as difficult as the ambush outside. But there was nothing for it. Arith was now as worried for that idiot Sam's life as she was angry at him, as these men would likely attack on site.

"Lydia? Could you step up as soon as one of them looks capable? I will join you when I have no more easy shots."

"Gladly."

Arith had more than one clear shot across the open hall from her position in the shadows of the stairway, but only felled two men before the one she should have been targeting made himself known. The master of the ice mages had his ward raised before the second of his apprentices had hit the floor, an arrow head erupting from the man's chest, and the master's rally cry echoed through the old stone corridors as his apprentice fell heavily to the floor. And, when the master mage charged recklessly to meet Lydia the answer to his calls came quickly from deeper within the fort.

For one moment Arith considered rushing out to help Lydia wear down the mage as fast as possible, but that moment of hesitation decided for her when three more mages of some kind appeared from the corridor at the far end. She would just have to trust Lydia to weather the ice mage's spells as best she could, and Arith nocked another arrow to take down his reinforcements before they caught sight of her and realised they should have had their spells readied.

The battle proved to be a long one, the master mage long outliving his inexperienced followers even with Lydia's sword swinging right in front of him. He was as capable as Arith at battle-healing, if not more so. Though she made a hardy stand, eventually the frost magics sapped too much at Lydia's energy. As she finally reeled back under the weight of her own exertion the mage made a dash for the far wall, to recover himself with restoration spells before Arith could finish him with an arrow.

And that being the case Arith set her bow aside and stepped into Lydia's place, still fresh for a fight. Against one of them the mage might have triumphed, but not against both. Arith cut him down at long last, in time for Lydia to stagger up, her energy slowly returning now that ice did not cover her.

"To think, this man's spells were more troublesome than a dragon's breath," Lydia groused. He would probably have been proud, if the bastard wasn't dead.

"Yes." Arith sighed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry I did not join you sooner, but these men would have been more trouble if they had likewise joined... the fight..."

Arith's voice faded as she saw a light swirling inconsistently on the raised stone walk above them. A magical whirlwind the size of a man. "Lydia? Did you see that spell start up?"

Lydia shook her head. "No, my Thane. One of the mages must have cast it during the battle?"

Arith disagreed. "The men up there were the ones I shot first. Come, let us find Sam before whatever that is decides to manifest more than it already has."

But searching the ruins, Sam was nowhere to be found. Even the bodies of the prisoners below, burned beyond all recognition in some twisted experiment, did not seem to match Sam's build.

Arith stared into the coals with contempt. "Whether one of them is him or not, I am suddenly very glad we cut those bastards down as hard as we did. Uhg, let us leave this place, the smell is making me sick to my stomach."

Lydia concurred. "With all haste. Those poor wretches. But... an idea does strike me, Arith. Was Sam a mage himself at all? Perhaps that magic tempest is..."

Arith nodded, having thought exactly the same thing. "It *might* be his. If he knew about this place, it might have been the ideal plot to have these men cleared out. If you will give me time to examine the spell, I might be able to find its purpose without getting us killed by it."

"You do not need my leave, Arith," Lydia replied, that familiar edge of sarcasm in her voice, "but do try to avoid that outcome, for both our sakes."

xxx

It was not fire or searing light that lay within that swirling vortex of magic, but a garden, bathed in the faint glow of spring twilight. Stone bridges made their quaint arches over a babbling brook, trees lined the pathways and stood upon tummocks of earth, and between them a hazy mist seeped all around, and even out of the arcane portal, into the ruined fort where it quickly dissipated under the glow of flickering torches.

"He couldn't be... in there. Could he?"

And Lydia actually looked worried by Arith's thought. This was magic of a higher order than any Arith knew, and that awe had echoed in her voice. "Are we to find out, my Thane?"

There was a stirring in Arith's breast, not from the soul of the dragon Sahloknir, but something deeper, that had driven men and women thought the ages both to greatness and to death in equal measure.

The power of unknown magic. The power of adventure. The need to understand the thing that sat before her, and to subdue her fear of what it might hold. To grasp it, know it, and master it.

"We are. Sam, if this is your doing, it's time to answer for it!"

And she stepped into the rift, to emerge with clear grass beneath her boots, and a gentle breeze on her cheeks. Adrenaline flooded her at not being snuffed out in the attempt. Turning back, she looked to Lydia and offered her hand. "Come, my friend. It seems we are safe."

Indeed, the little pocket grove, fading out into blurry evening colours in the distance, seemed almost idyllic. Picturesque and soft, unlike the cold hard mountains they had arrived through. Pleasantly cool, instead of harshly cold, and restfully quiet apart from the faint sounds of feasting in the distance.

Whether it was more mages, or Sam with more drunken friends, Arith didn't care. Her bow was in her hand as she and Lydia marched with a purpose up the little stone pathway towards those voices. Where they were, if it was even a real place at all, didn't really matter. What mattered now was simply uncovering who was behind it, and to hang with the consequences.

And at the end of the path, in a clearing amid the trees, stretched a long table. Eight men sat around it, eating and drinking merrily, and at the head of the table stood Sam Geuvenne, as if awaiting them.

"You're here," he said with an affable smile. "I was beginning to think you might not make it."

Arith looked first at him, and then at his revellers. Not a one of them looked up from his meal or his cup. But more unnerving, was that each man shared the same face. Eight men, all alike in almost every way, feasting as if there was no-one else in the world but themselves. A pit opened up in Arith's stomach as the sudden sense of danger returned.

"Yes. That was... quite a trip. Where is this place? Who are... they?"

Sam seemed entirely unconcerned by her disguised apprehension. "I thought you might not remember your first visit here. You had a big night. I think you've definitely earned this."

He held out a staff, like that of a mage, but topped with a delicate crystal flower.

Arith took it gingerly. "A... staff? Oh, yes, I remember. Your little ingredients list?"

Sam waved his hand. "Oh, the hagraven feathers and so on. You can throw all that out. You see..."

And then the man was engulfed by a blast of deep purple flame. Arith and Lydia both stepped back, weapons raised and looking for an attacker, before the smoke cleared and Sam remained standing. And changed.

"I really just needed something to encourage you to go out into the world and spread merriment. And you did just that! I haven't been so entertained in at least a hundred years."

It was no longer a man who stood there, but a demon in human form. A full head taller, and with shoulders broad enough to match any Nordman or Orc, his skin now shone stark black and red against the cool spring colours of the grove. Wickedly sharp armour rose from his chest and shoulders, to match the pair of horns that now jutted from his head.

Arith could only stare in fearful awe, while Lydia tried to push forward, if only her legs would obey her. "Who... Who *are* you?"

The demon threw open his arms and laughed. "I am Sanguine! Daedric Prince of Debauchery! I know, I know, how could I lie to you? Well, how could I know I could trust you until we'd shared a few drinks? But it wasn't long before I realised you make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy staff than this waste of flesh." He gestured to the table.

But Arith could only think of one thing. This was a Deadric Prince, one of the Lord of Oblivion, and his eyes had turned on her. "Of... of all people... why choose me?"

"Let's be honest here." Sanguine said, in mocking conspiratorial tones, "I don't always think my decisions through. But you... you're going places. Maybe a little influence from your old uncle Sanguine could help adjust your course a bit."

A Deadric Prince wanted to influence her destiny. The destiny prophesied by the Greybeards. "I see... I suppose... thank you?"

Sanguine smiled broadly. "My pleasure. But I think it's time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up here with the staff."

And with a snap of his fingers Arith and Lydia staggered, the grove around them warping into the inside of a tavern.

"W-what? Where...?" A quick look around told her she knew exactly where she was now. Though it was dark outside, the interior was still lit well, and still just as sparsely patronised. "The Vilemyr Inn? In Ivarstead?"

She looked to Lydia in shock. "Lydia? Please tell me that did not just happen."

But Lydia had gone almost as pale as Arith herself. "My Thane, we were just in the presence of..."

"For pity's sake don't say it!" Arith looked to the table where she and *Sanguine* had shared their first drink that night, now seeming such a long time ago. She still held his staff in her hand, and upon realising that fact she dropped it to the table quickly, as if afraid it might suddenly set her aflame. "Lydia. If you will forgive me, I will need a great deal of mead if I am to survive this night. And if you would join me, I think I might manage it."

xxx

Even with five bottles of mead in her, Arith couldn't sleep that night. A sixth rested in the crux of her crossed legs, cradled safe to keep the drunken haze down over her head; a blanket of warm fog between her mind and the thoughts of Sanguine's manipulations that paraded around it. They Greybeards had been one thing, they were mortal still, and they still commanded respect from all. Even an aggressive and wilful woman like Arith. When one of the great Daedra called, you either followed, or you died. Perhaps not physically, not unsubtly, but there would be fates worse than death deep in the realm of Oblivion, Arith was sure.

Her eyes travelled from the darkness outside the inn window to the butt of the rose-headed staff stuck in her travelling pack. She dared not leave it behind, if only because Sanguine himself only knew who might find it then, and make use of whatever unknown power it held. But to carry it with her, to have it forever within arm's reach? That scared her. Draugr, giants and dragons might make her wary, cautious and even concerned, but they no longer frightened her. Between them, she and Lydia had bested them all.

They could not best the Lord of Debauchery himself.

But neither would she worship him. Mara, Dibella and Stendarr would be the ones to receive her prayers, not one of the dark princes. And what scared her was what that would mean for herself, and for her stalwart Lydia.

The housecarl slept, if restlessly. The evening had worn on her like no other so far, and in her own drunken stupor Lydia had apologise in broken words for having been struck mute and immobile within that daedric grove. An inexcusable failing, if only in her own courageous eyes, it seemed. Lydia was just a woman walking amidst the divine, and she feared less for her life, but for her usefulness. When Arith could freeze men immobile or toss them aside with a single word, what place did Lydia have by her side if she could not step between her and those few powers that were greater than the Dovahkiin.

Stupid thoughts. Arith would have been dead already, most likely, if not for her housecarl. There was not another she would trust after the trials they had both faced.

But the time had come to step away from destiny, and from the machinations of kings, Daedra, and Dephine's Blades. Arith took another swig from her bottle. She needed to calm herself. To set her mind straight, and decide what mattered to *her*. So they had decided before Lydia had succumbed to her weariness: They would not return to Riverwood, or venture north in some wild hunt for Words. Riften would be their next calling. It was long past time for Arith to visit home.

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

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(c) Nutzoide 2012


	6. Riften

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 6: Riften

Arith stood by the roadside, looking across the bare southern bank of Lake Honrich. The trees that carpeted the riverside and the lands behind them only now sprouted from the earth in this spot, and the wind blew every which way as it was wont to with no aged trunks to stop it.

"I should have expected it, really," Arith said, as much to herself as her travelling companion. "Black-Briar probably had it torn down for the wood, once we had all gone."

Lydia had seemed surprised by the entire story. The Black-Briars were among the most noble and influential families in Skyrim, certainly within the hold of the Rift. There were tales of manipulative plots and politicking, of course, but to have levelled Arith's family home? They were still two hours walk from Riften. What would such a wealthy brewing family have against a woodcutter and huntsman's household.

"I don't know," was Arith's honest answer. "I have no proof, but it must have been them. My parents tried to ruffle no feathers. The only reason I could think to have us attacked and driven off was because of my brother."

She looked to the ground, and a new pine tree that barely reached her knee. "We were all troublemakers, when we were young. Life out here was boring then, when we were too small to follow the hunts. But Ansel, he never grew out of it. While Laila and I would read, or study, or practice to join the hunting parties, he ran with the thieves in the city. Easy money, he said, as long as our parents never found out. He planned to leave as soon as he could, and make a life in Riften with his 'friends'."

She sighed, and turned back to the road. There was nothing left to stay by the lake for. "I wish I knew whether it was them who attacked us, or some other enemy he must have made. But the thieves, the Black-Briars... maybe even the Thane. They're all connected. I'd believe my brother's old tales before I believe their word."

Lydia's look of pity was faintly insulting, even if she meant well. "That's... Only you survived?" And Lydia's gaze moved to Arith's white, dead right eye, and the scars below it.

"No. Father and I escaped with our lives. Mother and Laila, they had never learned to fight. At least they died trying, and were spared anything worse. Ansel probably would have put up a good fight, if half that mob hadn't leapt on him. Father lasted another winter - we tended each other's wounds - but there was so little I could do. I learned Mother's healing magics too late to help him. Come on, let us get to the city before it gets dark and the rats come out to walk the streets."

xxx

"Hold and stand down, ladies. If you want to get into Riften, use the north gate. This one's closed."

Arith blinked at the guard's stony reception, her brow furrowing before she sucked her teeth in annoyance. "What? Why?"

The guard just gave the pair of them a bored, and slightly contemptuous look. "My orders are to tell the riff-raff to use the north gate. That's it."

Oh. This was a shake-down of some kind. So much for hope springing eternal for this city. "I'm going in this way, and you'll damned well stand aside let the Dovahkiin pass!"

The mention of her bloodline got an uncertain look out of both the guard and his female colleague, but he did not back down. He was a head taller than her, and he apparently wasn't going to be cowed by her title alone. "That's a quick way to the executioner's block, girl, dragon-slayer or not. No special treatment. You can use the north gate to enter the city like everyone else, or you can hit the road. Your choice."

Arith turned away with a poorly disguised obscenity and led Lydia to the lake's edge, out of both sight and earshot of the guards back by the road.

"Should you have antagonised them like that, my Thane?" Lydia asked, but Arith had no time for these people's stupidity.

"If there was a reason for it, they'd have told us. They're just flexing their muscle, but I know another way in. My borther used to use it to slip out during daylight hours." She looked to the sky, and while the sun was setting it had not yet signalled the end of the working day for most. "Get undressed, we're going swimming."

One full face of Riften's city wall reached out into Lake Honrich, with the local fishery and meadery standing on stilts over the water, and outside the grasp of the city's huge port gate. The gate itself was sunk flush to the canal walls, and built too high to leap, but the Black-Briar Meadery was accessible from both sides. And for those that knew as much, it was an easy way into and out of the city.

That building was the root of Riften's problems, as Arith saw them. Lady Maven Black-Briar was a woman spoken of with reverence by most, her hands cleaner than most in the eyes of everyone beyond Riften's walls. Her money and influence spread good words and great deeds throughout Riften, but the city's inhabitants told a different tale. If anyone crossed her, even for the most trivial reasons, they ended up dead. She owned the city, or might as well have done. She and her family had already been well connected when Arith and her father had fled their home, years ago now. Today the Divines only knew how much that influence had spread.

But no-one came to Riften to ask the truth, so no-one knew. And those that might leave to take word of the corruption and crime endemic to the city, those who might have been believed at least, they rarely made it a day beyond the city limits. A perverse, two-faced city, unwilling to change, and un-needing of assistance in the eyes of those who saw such productive political and financial reports from outside.

Their armours stashed in their packs, all it took was five minutes for Lydia and Arith to dry themselves after climbing onto the dockside jetties, their belongings protectively wrapped in their waterproof cloaks. After that, the few guards that patrolled beyond the surrounds of the Black-Briar Meadery proved no obstacle. They were paid not to ask questions, and only those looking uncertain of their route inside would be stopped. The Meadery itself was not a simple building to navigate, split over three floors, and anyone who shouldn't have been there was quickly thrown out the way they came.

"Thankfully my brother liked to show off. Brought me in more than once, when we should have been out collecting firewood. When a missed turning can earn you a beating, you remember a building like this well. Just don't try to talk to anyone."

xxx

Inside the city Riften was much as she remembered it. Noisy, smoky, but seemingly pleasant and prosperous on the surface, without no pretensions of grand stone architecture or ancient history behind its walls. For a city so troubled by internal politics and crime, it was such a pleasant place to look at, in Arith's eye. And she had many fond memories to shade it pink, made before she had been old enough to see the seeds of discontent growing beneath its pleasant exterior.

But those seeds had grown fast, and she and Lydia had barely stepped out of the meadery's front door and taken a moment to cast their eyes over the city before Arith was accosted. The man was broad, his face framed by red hair and beard, and noticing her wandering gaze he spared no time in stepping away from his place at the market square to take advantage of a new, inquisitive face. "Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lass? You clink like you've a noble's coffers in those breeches."

Arith's eye turned away from the wood and stone building to this boldly spoken man. "I'm sorry, were you talking to me, old man?"

He cocked an eyebrow, clearly sure of himself. "I'm saying you've got the coin, but I'd doubt you earned a septim of it honestly. I can tell."

Arith took an instant dislike to the cocky man. A presumptuous, aged cutpurse most likely. "Any wealth I have is none of your business."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong lass. Wealth *is* my business. Maybe you'd like a taste?"

And Arith had never been one to let coin fall through her fingers. She had been brought up to conserve what she could earn, and to make the most of what opportunities arose. Though she could guess where this was going she decided to humour him, hoping Lydia wouldn't dismiss him too soon. "What do you have in mind?"

He seemed content with an open ear. "I have a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands. And in my line of work, extra hands are well paid."

"Work such as..?"

"Simple." He said, bold and brassy as his hair. "I'm going to cause a distraction, and you're going to steal Madesi's silver ring from a strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, place it in Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing."

That... She wasn't going to lie; Asking that of a total stranger in broad daylight took some balls. "Not ten feet into town, and I'm already being asked to throw my lot in with petty thieves? You're a brave man, but you're asking the wrong woman. I suggest you get out of here before your livelihood gets even more public."

And in his defence, or perhaps simply showing up his bravado, the red-haired man looked entirely unconcerned. "Sorry. I usually have a nose for this kind of thing. Never mind, lass. If you change your mind, come find me. I still think you have the aptitude, and I think you know it."

It couldn't have been a more depressing return to a city she had loved as a child. Where her mother had brought her to worship the Divine of Love, her father had sold his wares, and her brother had brought her on secret adventures to defy their parents together.

Lydia just looked bemused. "By the Gods. Where are the guard? How can he have just..."

"I told you, this place is troubled. More so than I expected, by the look of it." Arith sighed. Either they should leave soon, or throw their lot in with those locals who did still uphold the law. Maybe do something good for the city, instead of leaving it to rot from within. "Come. There's a pawn shop nearby that had good stock, once upon a time, and I would buy some more soul gems. These days, it is likely doing good business."

About the city many clearly understood the problems around them, and either damned the thieves guild openly or had no qualms about admitting their affiliation. The guards were sparsely posted at the entrances, and around important buildings, but Arith suspected much of the dealing was done openly in the city, with little concern for the law, such as it was. It was a shame, because Arith remembered Jarl Laila Law-Giver being known for her fairness and understanding of the citizenry, though her family had never had an audience with her.

It was by the north gate, after their shopping had been done and their loot sold, that Arith caught sight of an unexpected pair by the side of the city flop-house. A small Imperial man sat upon a crate, in despondent conversation with a Nord woman who dwarfed him, tall and muscular. But despite her stature, her voice and face were fair, even beneath enough woad to shame one of the Companions. A full half of her face was painted by it.

If she was a Companion Arith wanted to avoid conversation, especially since enough time had passed for all among their number to hear of her rejection if Skjor had wanted to spread the word. But the likelihood of that was minute, given that they had tried to share their taint in secret. And just as well, as that warrior woman had noticed their stares, and their wending through the streets to get their bearings.

"You're a stranger here too, huh?"

Either Arith walked on, or learned just who this woman was. The fact that she didn't look like a Riften native pushed Arith towards the latter. "I might as well be, these days. You're not from Riften?"

The heavily painted woman smiled, and shook her head. "I've been adventuring across Tamriel since I was a fresh-faced young woman, barely able to swing a blade. My travels have taken me from High Rock to Valenwood, Elsweyr to Morrowind and all points in between. My name is Mjoll, some say 'The Lioness', if you like titles."

"Arith Half-Blind. I'm sure you can guess why. And my friend Lydia, of Whiterun. What brings you here then, Mjoll the Lioness? It can't be the hospitality."

There was a story to tell behind that, and it seemed like Mjoll enjoyed telling such tales. "Many years ago I lost my blade 'Grimsever' within a Dwemer ruin north of here. I took it as a sign that I was wasting my days in search of wealth. By the look of you, and the sound of coin in your purse, you and I are alike. We seek challenge and great fortune. But for me, that's where the similarities end. You see, Riften is my great beast to be slain, and my fortune comes from gratitude and trust."

"Your great beast?" An unusual turn of phrase, more fitting from the tongue of a skald than a warrior. "You mean... the guild then?"

Mjoll grimaced. "To call it a guild is ridiculous. How can people who would betray one another over a gold coin be considered part of an association? They're the worst kind. Even the Dark Brotherhood assassins abide by a strict set of rules and traditions. These thieves are just rabble. Would you not agree?"

Arith wouldn't have been so dismissive. "I think no rabble would be so well organised. But I do. Not even an hour back within these walls and I already miss the Riften of old."

That seemed to be enough for the woman. "That I can respect. Were they just a rabble they might be easier to combat, but they are a difficult beast to guard against. But other than Aerin here, you seem to be the only other person within this city who might not betray a trust to them, if those are your feelings. And if they are, let me warn you. They're recruiting others to join their 'guild'. Be cautious."

"So I have already found," Arith muttered darkly. "You make yourself Rifen's protector then? To save this place from itself?"

Mjoll nodded, but there seemed to be little pride in her as she did. "It's been difficult. I've taken the burden of this city's problems upon myself, and yet I keep running into impossible obstacles. Corruption, lies and deceit are the order of the day here. If it wasn't for Aerin, this young man who saved my life, I think I'd have already given up long ago."

Arith looked to the quiet Imperial, not quite believing it. "He did?"

Mjoll nodded, clearly indebted to the man. "It was Aerin who found me bleeding to death outside that Dwemer ruin. If he hadn't brought me here and nursed me back to heath, I would not have survived. When my strength returned and he told me about the problems plaguing Riften, I decided fate brought me here for a reason. So I stayed."

A laudable goal, but one so far off as to be near impossible to reach, Arith suspected. Even knowing of the Ratways - the sewers beneath the city where the guild met - one warrior alone would not be enough to flush them out. And even if a troop of men did so, the rats would merely scatter, to regroup elsewhere. They were as much a symptom of greater problems as they were a problem in themselves.

But the woman Mjoll had the determination that so many within Riften lacked; not merely the desire to see it changed but the intent to stand up and do something about it. Even if the consequences might be grave. Arith would have like to aid her in that task, if only she knew how, but she was a stranger in the city now. If she was to help at all, she would need guidance.

xxx

Finding guidance within that city would be no easy task, and Arith took to her bed within The Bee and Barb unable to come to any satisfactory answer. To aid Mjoll was the obvious route, but having taken on her task single-handedly seemed to be the point of her crusade. And there were surely many other angles to attack Riften's problems from.

"You are Thane, if of another province." Lydia then reminded her. "If you trust the Rift's Jarl, then why not meet with her directly?"

Why had Arith had never considered that? The Rift was her home hold, after all. Perhaps Jarl Laila Law-Giver would welcome outside aid from one who hailed from her own lands. And she was the Dovahkiin, after all. If nothing else, that should gain her an audience!

The Jarl's keep was still abuzz with activity when morning broke, talk of the civil war abounding, and the Jarl's own housecarl striding about the place as if to show he was putting his energy to good use in combating the local thieves, despite lacking the troops and equipment to do so. The stormcloak camps had sapped them for resources, this hold outspokenly loyal to Ulfric's cause.

But the Jarl herself seemed so much less energetic. She slouched on her chair at the head of the keep hall, her eyes wandering over the men and women who rushed too and fro beneath her, and it was clear that she was trying to affect an air of calm, relaxed control.

It didn't quite work. Instead, to Arith's untrained eye, she seemed old and tired as she agreed with one proposal after another that was put before her, and dismissed servant and soldier alike with a wave of her hand. Maybe she knew she was losing the internal battle for her city, and distracted herself with larger matters of war. Or maybe she had already lost, and could only play out her role to the best of her ability. Arith hoped not, but it was telling that the Jarl only had a few scant words of welcome for her, before she was passed to the Jarl's Dunmer attendant when the matter of assisting the city arose.

Anuriel greeted her warmly, moreso than her mistress, "With the guard stretched so thin, the Jarl has put out a bounty on a dragon that has been terrorising the countryside. I would assume you have heard rumours of it among the citizenry. Here, this is the decree, if you want the details."

Indeed, Arith had heard, but looking at the notice it seemed that the dragon had roamed unchecked for some considerable time. It would be two days outside the city at least to reach the peak it had claimed as its nest. It was not the sort of task Arith had hoped for, but she could not deny it was one for which she was uniquely suited. "If it will help Riften, then I can see this creature dead."

xxx

There was one more visit to make before departing the city though. While the prospect of dragon slaying no longer brought with it the same dread it once had, Arith would have been remiss to go on without requesting a blessing from the priestesses of Mara.

The temple remained much as she remembered it; weather worn stone walkways surrounded a simple courtyard, with steps leading up to a simple wooden hall, the temple itself. Like the city around it, what it lacked in ostentation, it made up for in simple rustic charm, and for Arith at least ascending those stone steps still brought with is a tingle of child-like religious wonder.

Inside it might have been mistaken for a chapel, if not for the many alcoves and stairways hidden around the small central hall. Straight wooden pews faced the shrine table, still empty this morning beyond one of the priests, his head bowed in contemplation.

Arith did not take a seat, but instead approached the shrine to bow her own head. "I hope you would forgive my absence, Lady."

It was a surprise to hear a voice other than Lydia's come from her side as she prayed. "All are welcome at the Temple of Mara, even those whose paths have taken them far from this house. Her blessings are many, and not bound by distance if you love as she does."

Arith looked to the Dunmer priestess, surprised not to recognise her. The temple had not employed any Mer in her youth, but the words of that mantra came back to her clearly none the less. "To love is to know the true nature of the Gods." It seemed silly to say it now, but those words still held some sway over any who worshipped Mara. "I would be leaving again soon, and hoped to receive Her blessing as I go."

The Dunmer priestess' eyes appeared clear, but now that Arith looked it seemed as though they did not quite focus on her. "Not all can hear the broad echoes of deepest dawn. To receive the touch of Mara, one must act as Her hands within the world. Explore the facets of the infinite jewel. You would be prepared, then, to bring this light across the land as you leave us?"

A priestess who spoke in riddles? A part of Arith, the part that would devour literature and absorb spellcraft with subconscious voracity begged for the woman to speak plainly, but the Huntress and curious, pious child within her needed no such reassurance. "What would She have me do, sister?"

The priestess smiled slowly. "The dawn surely opens upon you, child. You must bear its light, that all may see. Mara has reflected an image to me. At the foot of the Throat, and a young woman... almost a girl... her fickle love must resolve itself. The village of Ivarstead. The woman; Fastred by name. This is the prayer heard by the Goddess and relayed to her servants. Return to this house when she has seen her path. I will entreat Mara, on your behalf."

xxx

Arith didn't know whether to be impressed or dispirited as they passed Mjoll and Aerin on the way out of the city. That little stretch of wall seemed to be their designated meeting place, public, but still out of the way enough that neither the guard or the thieves would either intervene or overhear. 

"Yes, I had another run-in with the thieves last night." 

"Be *careful* Mjoll. The guild has Maven Black-Briar at her back. One snap of her fingers, and you could end up in Riften Jail... or worse." 

"They represent the reason I'm here. I can't just ignore them Aerin."

And bless his heart, Aerin genuinely sounded both awed and pained by her conviction. 

"I know. I just don't want you to... 'leave'; You're the only good thing that's happened to this city in a long time."

Their quiet exchange did not go unnoticed by Lydia either. "I am not sure which of them is the lucky one to have the other. For an unattached pair, they seem quite dependant on one another."

"Maybe that's why they remain unwed. To protect one another from their own actions? Because they think too highly of one another in some play of foolish modesty? Maybe Mara should be looking less far a-field to spread her influence."

Passing through the city gates northwards, Lydia gave a contemplative hum. "Not that they would be the first to be content in companionship unburdened by the obligation of intimacy and divine rite."

"Huh, where's the fun in that? Life is short, and should be enjoyed as such."

And damn her as well, Lydia gave her the most disarming smile in reply. "And yet you wander out at the beck and call of law, sage word and divine mandate to slay dragons, honour dead ancestors, and save the hearts of strangers before your own? An excess of drink beneath a cloudy sky is enjoyment enough, my Thane?"

Since when had her title become a subject of such sarcasm in Lydia's eyes, that she could mock so openly with it. "Don't lecture, Lydia. I might think you would like to taste the edge of *my* tongue if you do."

xxx 

Only a few minutes north of Riften, and barely off the main road, Merryfair Farm was another place Arith remembered from her youth. It was as far around the eastern edge of the lake as she had ever ventured at that age, to steal cabbages from their closest rivals. Not that the young Dunmer pair had ever actually been rivals, Arith's parents and older family had been hunters and woodsmen, but at that age the Mer had been easy targets for the malicious pranks of youth. As she had grown she had developed an uneasy but civil relationship with them when they had met her mother and father in the city.

Though she approached the farm itself as a matter of courtesy - and curiosity, she admitted to herself - she had to wonder if they would actually recognise her now, after six years and a close call with an assassin's blade.

It should not have come as a surprise, but the two Dunmer looked old as they toiled over their small patches of land. And though the woman Sydna greeted her politely enough, there was no recognition in her eyes. Not with the scar that ran down Arith's face, and the lack of hair beneath her helm.

"You'll forgive me for noting," Arith said, when a little formality seemed all that Sydna had to offer when there were crops to tend, "but times seem... strained for you?"

The look Sydna gave in return made it clear that was the understatement of the year. "After we were robbed, Dravin's become more bitter than ever. He's come to hate his place now."

That... was quite an admission to make. This farm, and the city it fed, was their livelihood. "What happened?" 

After seeing them stop his wife to talk, Dravin had already stridden over, and the old Mer was more than willing to tell it all. "A few days ago, some thieves from Riften broke in here and stole by bow. Can you imagine? Left the rest, and took the only thing of value we had. Our best defence, what with talk of dragons attacking this way and soldiers on the march." He let out a dry huff. "I should have been watching the city, and not the skies."

He eyed the shields that both Arith and Lydia wore, and sucked his teeth before going on. "You... You're fighting women. They guard's already said there's nothing *they* can do, if you have the guts to head into the ratways and get my bow back, I'll pay you what I can." 

While for many there was little worth in angering the thieves guild over such a simple possession, it was a shame to see that once-proud elf made to look old like that. And it might also be reason enough to aid Mjoll after all, and pick a worthy fight that the guard weren't willing or able to. "I have errands that take me away from the city for now, but if you can wait for my return I may be able to help in some way."

Dravin sighed, but gave her a smile of gratitude none the less. "If you can, then thanks. It would be nice to have it back... means a lot to me."

xxx

Northwind mountain lay the best part of two days away on foot, but with all their wandering recently Arith and Lydia were in good shape to make the journey quickly, stopping only to exchange blows and arrows with the local brigandry and hunting favours for beds in the mining village of Shor's Stone.

Not that either stop was routine. The bandits that had claimed Fort Greenwall as their own must have been practicing against the local Stomcloak soldiers, as their archers were worryingly good shots, and the marauder men among them could even best Lydia on the front line before Arith realised her axe and more especially her voice were needed to keep them under control. Several frozen dead bodies later and the bandits' unusually high level of skill also yielded a great deal of gold, more so than any before them. They had clearly been very good at what they did, until now.

And coming out of Shor's Stone, the Soldier's watchtower held no soldiers to guard the village from such people, or from overzealous Imperials who might have been spoiling to push into the Rift from the North. Instead there lay only the dead, with no sign of their attackers, or even of who their attackers might have been. The assault had left the wooden structure intact, but the savagery could have been ascribed to maddened sword swings or troll claws just as easily. A worrying portent if the war was to continue on, leaving placed such as Shor's Stone defenceless. At least they still had a standing guard to inform, and to take up the post for now.

xxx

The path up the mountain lay along its northern side, seeming to wind into ever steeper climbs until disappearing into the rock itself, and through the Northwind mine. "The miners left in a hurry," Lydia noted at the picks cast across the floor, and carts that remained still half-full of rock. "And not all successfully." One man was crushed by a small cave in, already little more than bones remaining.

Up ahead Arith had already found that worse fates had befallen some. "And some of them are restless enough to claim it still!"

Lydia joined her in time to see the last of the animate bones collapse, its own harsh enchantment breaking as an arrow pulled the skull from its spine. "No necromancer animated these?" Arith had never known anything but folklore to tell of bodies returning under their own power, beyond the cursed draugr.

And a poorly concealed tripwire higher in the mine brought a thought to her head. "Would that be in case the dragon ever tried to claim the mine, or a shade of a former life's greed?"

"I couldn't say. Either way, let us cut it safely and be done with this place. That a dragon lurks outside makes me nervous to remain underground."

But she needn't have been. The blue-white frost dragon sat content upon one of its many rocky perches, right up until the moment that they saw it and it caught sight of them. Beneath it lay the wreck of the old mining village, little more than a few abandoned shacks nestled into those huge surrounding boulders to protect them from the wind and snow.

And unlike the dragons so far, this one was content to remain in the air or on its stone perches rather than land, leaving Arith and Lydia to fire arrows into its scaly hide, separated to minimise the hurt it could do as is spewed freezing breath over them. And hurt it did, more so than any dragon they had faced so far. Even with their native resilience to the cold, Arith found herself needing to sprint away to quaff scavenged draughts of arcane heath while Lydia battled on, and yet when the dragon turned its gaze to her Lydia could withstand only two gouts of its frost before the third left her shivering and exhausted on the dirt.

But that dragon did not even wait for Arith to distract it with another arrow before taking flight again and turning to her. It seemed to know that, as annoying as Lydia's bow might be, Arith was the real threat. It could finish off the housecarl at its leisure, as long as the Dovahkiin was dead.

It threw subtlety to the wind, and with terrifying speed it dove and slammed into the ground in front of her, ploughing a furrow twenty feet wide through the remains of the mining village. Arith dove in panic, never having expected a dragon to attack so recklessly, and was covered by soil and dust while Lydia's shivering form was flung aside by the impact, but by some miracle she had escaped being crushed outright.

Though the creature now snapped and bit, and poured it frost over her when Arith retreated to draw her bow again, it was clear the creature was suffering for its earlier hubris. Arrows stuck into its belly from every angle, and those few that now protruded from its face bled freely. Despite how strong it seemed, and how easily it could make them flee for a few second respite, they were winning!

And to hammer their victory home Lydia recovered in time to bury her sword into its flank. "You'll die this day, dragon!" It earned he a wing across her face for her trouble, and she stumble back again, half senseless, but it bought Arith one more arrow, which she embedded in the beast's forehead.

The dragon slumped and tottered on its claws a moment, before letting out one last roar and collapsing in a heap in the middle of he ruined camp.

Its flesh began to burn. It was done, and now Arith could claim her glorious, hard won prize.

"My Thane? Once you have finished communing with the dragon, a share of a bottle to warm me would be appreciated."

Arith turned smug as the whirlwind glow of the dragon's spirit faded, receding into her glowing breast. It was a shame she could not share that sensation with her stalwart companion. "Lydia, you poor thing. Sit down and let me heal you a little. Then we can find a potion or two to take the edge off, and some mead to chase them down, hmm?"

"Now who is being sarcastic?"

"I can't imagine where I got it."

xxx

Asking around Ivarstead, two days and another dead Khajit assassin later, it became clear just who the young woman Fastred was, and what her fickle heart had got her into. She was still young, driven by the whim and whimsy of her heartstrings, and merely needing a gentle push one way or the other, but for her unhappy sense of familial obligation.

And it appeared she had been waiting for heir arrival. At the sign of someone other than family or friend approaching as she worked her small plot of land, her eyes grew wide and hopeful. "Where you the ones sent by Mara?"

It took Arith somewhat by surprise. "You... knew someone would be coming?"

She nodded urgently. "I prayed to Mara, and she spoke to me in a dream! She said a stranger would appear after four days to help me. Is that you?"

Probably not the image of Mara's will that the young woman expected, but that she believed so eagerly made Arith smile. "Yes. Tell me of your trouble."

And so she did. At length. Eloping with the man she seemed almost sure she loved was hardly the most sensible of her heart's desires, but then love was rarely sensible in Arith's mind. Sensible marriages were ones of familial, financial, or political power. Marriages of love were fraught and offered no guarantee of security in Skyrim, but they were the ones that were most exciting and euphoric.

The problem was her parents, her father specifically, who had no intention of letting her run off to the big city with the man. True, if they were to run anywhere Arith would not have recommended Riften to them, but then they would at least have Mara's temple on their doorstep to shepherd them, should they need it.

"Very well. Let me speak to your parents."

Arith might as well have told her she was Mara herself for the way the girl smiled. "Oh, thank you so much. It's wonderful to have someone around who understands."

And perversely, her mother had no issue with the man, or the idea of Fastred leaving for a life of her own. She just wanted the man to show that he was brave enough to do it.

"After all, if they just snuck out of town together, I could manage my husband."

So, while the girl's heart might not remain so resolute with the passing of a season, her mother at least approved of the match, and that was enough for Arith. There was no need to go dragging other men-folk into the issue, to muddy it with responsibility to their farm or with paternal over-protectiveness.

Which left only Lydia as the sole voice of concern. "And what if her heart does change. Or his, for that matter. It would leave her alone in a city that seems to devour such easy prey."

"Then Mara will look out for her. She would not send me here if she did not have this girl under her wing, I am sure. Perhaps she needs to learn that love is fickle before learning the depth of its power." Arith couldn't help but ask. "You have never been tempted by a fickle love, Lydia?"

"Not fickle, no. Brief, yes, but I knew such when I accepted him into my bed."

Wow. That was a revelation. Almost disappointing actually, before Arith reminded herself that there was nothing to be jealous of. Good for her. "And... if that brief time had become more, even without intending it? Would you deny her the chance of that?"

"There is no comparison there, Arith. But no, I would not. She is old enough to discover what will come for herself." And she remained thoughtful for a moment. "Do you truly believe that the priestess had spoken to Mara directly. And that She visited this girl Fastred in a dream?"

"It would be quite the coincidence if not. Or the most elaborate confidence trick I have ever heard of."

The girl's suitor Bassianus seemed slimy and calculating to Arith's eye, with greasy hair and a voice that suited a manipulator more than a lover. And yet when Arith mentioned Fastred, and her mother's willingness to protect him from the girl's father, he did sound genuinely grateful. And more than that, both his thanks and his spoken intent to 'rescue' her from that dour town was poetic beyond Arith's wildest expectations. Either he was a master seducer, or Arith should have learned long ago not to be judging anyone by first impressions.

xxx

That night, within their room at the Vilemyr Inn, one burning thought remained within her mind. It wasn't of the dragon that had come so close to tearing her in half, or of the pair who had left the village that very afternoon, under the interference of Fastred's mother.

Lydia was not a girl nearly as naive as Fastred - neither was Arith herself for that matter. Not by a long shot. So why should it bother her that her housecarl - an appointed servant of all people - should draw that line of green envy from Arith's thoughts.

Because she was no servant in Arith's mind, of course. They were friends, fast and true, and Lydia's loyalty to her was in no doubt despite all the trials and dangers they had faced. And because Arith had actually been alone for a while now. Gone where the teenaged outings at night, to meet other exciting and like-minded young adults. Likewise the therapeutic, alcohol fuelled trysts among fellow mercenary survivors in the wake of her father's death, after almost every successful assault on a bandit stronghold or camp.

What right did she have to be jealous of the lucky man who had lain with perhaps her most trusted, lone friend?

"Lydia? Who was that brief love of yours?"

Her question through the darkness brought Lydia's breath to a quiet halt, before it was released as a tired sigh. "He was a solider, my Thane. He had flattered me unrepentantly while we were guard together within Whiterun, but neither of us wished to risk our new positions so soon... and we became used to that status quo. He was sent off to die in Hammerfell, when political relations collapsed."

Oh dearest Divines, why did I have to ask like some jealous fool? "I'm sorry, Lydia. I did not mean to bring back such memories."

"Do not apologise, my Thane. They are fond memories for me. We were fast friends, and I only regret that neither of us chose to make something of it sooner. Yet, if we had, news of his death might have broken my heart. As it was, we both knew that he might not return, whether by his post or by an enemy sword. And we had notice enough that I could thank him for his flattery."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He was. But I have mourned for him, and he is at peace." She turned over to look at Arith from across the room, and Arith could not meet her eyes. "If it is not too presumptuous, my Thane: What of your own partners? I imagine you to be quite a prolific lover when so inclined."

"... Yes. There have been... a few."

Lydia seemed to take her reticence as disapproval, and her voice turned quiet. "I apologise, my Thane. I have overstepped myself."

"No, Lydia. It was I who overstepped. I... I have loved often, at times. Fellow bandit hunters and militia woodsmen - well, woodswomen - for the most part. I did grow close to several of them, but our company could change from job to job. And I have few grand tales of romance, like yours. We would drink, sing, and exhaust ourselves in bed to celebrate a good fight, to release the tension after a near death battle as much as out of fondness for one another."

"So you do prefer the company of women. In all honesty it sounds much like a life you would thrive on, were it not for Greybeards and dragons."

"Was it not obvious by your own remarks? Still it was neither dragons nor Greybeards that put an end to it for me. When the first of those beast-woman assassins showed up I felt for sure that Black-Briar, or whoever it might have been, had found out that I had survived the attack on my family, and had come to finish the job five years late. Rather than lose my company after they helped me put her down I fled, right into an Imperial trap for Ulfric Stormcloak of all people."

"Yet if you had not, Skyrim might never have found its Dragonborn. And where would we be then?"

xxx

Back within the walls of the city, the priestess of Mara welcomed Arith's return with open arms, her eyes turning from their transfixion at Her statue to the returning warrior.

"Lady Mara bids you welcome to her benevolence. The prayer for young Fastred has grown quiet, and so you return to us."

Arith bowed her head. "There was little to resolve, it seemed. Only a mustering of courage, easily fostered."

"How wonderful. Like the sea, their love roils and swells, but brings life and nourishment to all."

The words were both reassuring and confusingly cryptic to Arith's ears. Like a sermon she might have been unable to comprehend in her youth, but there was a satisfaction to be had in the priestess's appreciation. "If Mara requires more of me, you need only ask it."

"I see you are eager to carry the light. Indeed, as you venture Mara fills my mind evermore with visions of love imperilled. Embers lie nestled in stone, needing only fuel to bloom to a flame that will warm all around them. In Markarth will you find Calcelmo, wise, acid and reclusive. Help him emerge and state his intentions. This is the prayer heard by the Goddess, and relayed to her servant."

Markath? The other side of the country. "Then when I am able, I will visit him. Though there is still work required of me here in Riften."

The priestess merely smiled, as if in some kind of profound understanding. "That is all She asks."

xxx

"The dragon of Northwind Peak is dead."

Her pronouncement echoed around the audience hall of Mistveil Keep like the tolling of a feasting bell, and one brief silence fell across warrior and servant alike before someone started up the cheer. Soon that celebration echoed around the keep so that even the cooks came to sneak a look at the dragon slayer who had succeeded where many a soldier or sell-sword had failed.

And though her tongue protested, Arith tried to maintain at least a cover of modesty in front of the Jarl. It had been a hard won fight, and more dangerous than any dragon before it. There might have been an edge of jealousy in some of the warrior-men's eyes when they came to realise that the pair were no strangers to such success in battle, but they congratulated theym all the same. Their pride would never have let them go without acknowledging the skill and courage required to face such a beast and survive to tell the tale.

It was after the eruption of good humour had abated that Anuriel bid them up to the dais where she and the Jarl took their audiences.

"You've done us a great service." The Dunmer attendant wore a gracious smile, but one that lacked the open euphoria or relief of the Nords around her. This was a mere formality to her. "I will send someone to fetch your reward. And if you still seek to be of service to the Jarl, then your prowess could still be put to use here in the Rift."

"How so?"

Anuriel's smile became that shade more genuine on her lips. "There is an encampment of bandits by the river, poised to hit trade going down that route either by road or water. We are told they strike from the fortifications at Treva's Watch, now that war has emptied half the old keeps of soldiers. A surprise attack, by a pair such as yourselves, could weaken them significantly. Even liberate the keep outright, if you struck with enough force."

Arith couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Force I can do."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

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(c) Nutzoide 2012


	7. Overwhelming Force

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 7: Overwhelming Force

Before any obligations to the Jarl, before yet more marauders on the roads, there was the much more personal matter of the city's thieves and the farmer Dravin's bow. It gave Arith a legitimate reason to make an enemy of the guild beyond troublemaking for its own sake, and Dravin was a mer undeserving of such a theft. Had he been a noble, or one to put on airs above the poorer city folk, profiteering cat burglars she might have been able to understand. But that was not the case. He had his farm, his wife, and a few trinkets bought when harvest had been good. Making off with the farm's only heirloom seemed needlessly unkind.

"Arith, it is not like you to agonise," Lydia chastised as they discussed the matter in a quiet corner of the Bee and Barb, over an evening ale. "Are you looking for a reason not to stir the wasps in their nest?"

Arith didn't honestly know either. "Perhaps I am. I fear that it might do more harm to the city than good if they retaliate, for the sake of one elf's state of mind."

Lydia pondered the question, looking thoughtful. "And you would not remain here for a day or so afterwards, to beat down such an attack."

"Lydia, what makes you think it would be an open attack? If they were so unsubtle, surely the Jarl, or Black-Briar herself, would have been forced to take action against them, for the sake of face if nothing else."

Lydia's expression fell a little, but Arith was glad to see that her friend was not nearly ready to give up on the argument just yet. "Then why not speak to Mjoll. She would know better than most how to go about such an attack. She might even think to lend us her arms, and by the looks of them they would be an asset indeed."

That was an idea Arith could get behind, and knowing that the warrior woman often frequented that tavern of an evening they decided to stay and wait.

Getting Mjoll to join them for a meal was not difficult, but when their voices quietened so did the friendly air in Mjoll's own. "That... that would be a worthy task. But I have ventured down there only briefly, and would not do so again. The guild are not the only ones to hide away underground, and many of those down there are desperate and not of their right mind. Without my blade in my hands... No. I would wager you could unearth the bow with ease, and put down those who would stand in your way simply for the tresspass - I have already heard the rumours of what you have done for this city, and the entire hold - but you will have to forgive me if I do not join in the hunt. My foes are above ground now, walking Riften freely despite their crimes.

"But you would not warn us away?"

Mjoll shook her head, and took a heavy pull from her ale. "No. If more people stood up for those in need, this city would be a better place for it. I will keep my eyes and ears sharp, if you would worry for him afterwards."

Then it was decided. If someone like Mjoll had no fears for the aftermath, then Arith would take every advantage of her assistance. "Good. Then we will all see ourselves satisfied, I think." The confident, contented smile Lydia wore only re-enforced that. "So tell me, what did happen to your blade, anyhow? You can't buy another?"

Mjoll sighed, and shook her head. She sounded almost as if speaking about a lost son, rather than a weapon. "Without 'Grimsever', I feel almost as defenceless as a newborn. But no, it was unique to me, and had travelled in my grasp for so long. I don't think I will ever find a replacement."

xxx

The ratway was easy enough to get to, down the steps by the canal waterline, around the twisting run of boarding that had once catered to the courier boats and punts servicing the breadth of the city. Now it gave the city's destitute some way up from their run down homes or 'sewer' camps to the city proper - to buy, steal or beg for what they needed to survive.

"I dunnow Drahff. They'd skin us alive if they knew we were doin' this."

"Why are you always acting like such a big baby. I've gotten us this far."

"This far? We're livin' in a sewer. You said we'd have a house as big as the Black-Briars' by now."

"You worry about bashing peoples heads in, I'll worry about the guild. Okay?'

Such were the kinds of conversations held by those who still thought they had a chance eking out their living underground, but the truth of it was they would probably die down there. If not from malnutrition or disease, then by making desperate attacks on those richer and better armed than themselves, looking for loot or justice in those old warrens. More than a half dozen men and women came to attack Arith and Lydia for their equipment or out of some crazed sense of ownership of their dungeon-like rooms, and few survived the encounters. Better to put them out of their misery than allow them to get lucky one day, and kill someone who did not deserve to be mugged so brutally.

However, simply getting out under the city was as much of a challenge as dealing with its inhabitants. The place had been sewer and oubliette in equal parts in times past, taking away both the city's waste and its arrested undesirables, flushing them all underground to be forgotten, rather than take up the city's valuable time and resources. That people still lived their entire lives down there, insane or impoverished, came as no real surprise. It was a pitiful state of affairs, and spoke poorly of humanity and mer-kin both that so many still languished or retreated to live there.

The open bar, however, was an absurd evolution to have come about from it. After vagrants and lowlife thugs, seeing men and women in fine leather armour and carrying weapons discreetly sheathed at their sides was both a relief and profoundly unnerving.

"My Thane? I think we have found the guild. Or at least part of it. I suggest we not make such a scene here?"

"Agreed. Though Mjoll will want to hear of it, I'm sure."

Though they seemed to tolerate their presence, none of the thieves seemed interested in speaking to either Arith or Lydia, for which they were both grateful. It was much easier to remain gruff and reticent when those who might not be allies were content to do the same, and allow them on their way with a minimum of warning words. Though unfriendly, these people weren't as eager to resort to murder as the lowlifes further up in the ratway, and there were several interesting conversations being had at the wooden tables laid around the underground bar.

Not least of which was from the boastful woman in dark leathers to her companions. Skooma was illegal almost everywhere in the empire, among the most notorious narcotics available on the black markets. And she was getting it into Riften, somehow. Apparently anything was possible as long as you knew the right people.

But who on earth were the right people, was Arith's question. Either a very daring smuggler, or someone beholden to the stuff and paid in product would be her guesses. But that wasn't what they were down there for, and asking unwanted questions would be a good way to get on the wrong side of these people very quickly. In concert, they would be very dangerous indeed, and not a challenge to undertake right now. Simply knowing they were down there was worth enough.

xxx

Actually getting to the bow was not the trial that getting to the underground tavern had been. They found it unguarded, locked in a strong box in one of the poorly furnished cells only a little way further into those stone dungeons, and the box was no match for Arith's skill with a pair of lock picks and a keen ear. Whether it had been the guild after all or just the wandering lowlifes that shared those tunnels, neither Arith nor Lydia could determine, but after having carved their way down the return to the city above was free of any further harassment. What the guild would do when they found the bodies of the thugs that lay between them and the law was anyone's guess, but for now Arith was content to settle for a good deed done.

Dravin seemed unable to believe his eyes when they returned with it. He let his hoe fall from his fingers to hold the bow with the same care that Arith had received the sword presented to her by Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, when she had been Thaned. "I don't know how you got it back, and I don't want to know. Frankly, I don't care. I'm just so glad to see it again."

Though he had claimed not to be able to offer much for the service, he returned from his home with a handful of precious stones that he pressed into Arith's palm. "I hope this is enough."

Though small and simple, the ruby and emerald alone were worth far more than many men might have paid in gold for the same work. "More than enough, Dravin. That's... very generous of you."

Some petty part of her wanted to apologise for the grief that she and her brother had caused him as a child, but then that would mean admitting who she was. And she wasn't ready to do that. Better leave that past buried, and simply accept the gratitude of strangers.

xxx

With the sun now low in the sky, but not nearly sunk behind the mountainous horizon, curious minds now turned to the rumours they had heard beneath the city streets. General banditry and smuggling was to be expected in every town from there to Solitude, but there was a difference between smuggling mead, alchemical agents or even weaponry, and substances like Skooma.

If there was a more addictive substance in Tamriel neither Arith nor Lydia had heard of it. Smoked or distilled and drunk by the Khajiit in massive quantities so rumour had it, the narcotic was somehow still incredibly difficult to aquire, and very much illegal in every region, Skyrim being no exception. While the feline-folk found the stuff relaxing, it made any other man, woman or beast near-mad with its sudden euphoric effects, followed by an extreme lethargy.

Non-Khajiit addicts were an easy bunch to spot, or so Lydia had been told in the course of her guard duties, but that was difficult to attest to when she had encountered none in all her years within Whiterun. Without any lead to go on beyond an overheard boast from an all too well protected thief, investigating the flow of skooma into Riften would have been a near impossible task.

Thankfully, stalking around the thieves den for a moment to ambush that black-clad woman would not be required when the men and women of the dock-side were so eager to gossip. While an Argonian face might be difficult for anyone not of their species to read, even a Nord man could grow suspicious and talkative when one of their kind was so often late for work, dull and twitch-eyed.

The lizard-woman Wujeeta did not even try to deny it. One mention of her 'friends' and the problems she might be facing because of them, and she fell into a desperate, impassioned plea.

"I don't mean to do this to myself, but I just can't help it. I tried to skooma a year ago, and ever since then, I can't stop!"

That, thankfully for them both, was a problem more easily fixed than many believed. Most properly concocted potions that healed wounds and purged toxins could also flush the worst dregs of skooma from a person's system, and while they were expensive for a simple labourer like Wujeeta, such brews were both necessary and easily collected by warrior wanderers like Arith.

Wujeeta grasped the glass bottle in both clawed hands with unconcealed relief, and perhaps a little trepidation, before pouring the contents down her throat.

"Tell me," Arith asked as he Argonian finally came up for air. "Where is it you've been *getting* that stuff, and for over a year!"

The lizard-woman's every muscle froze. "Look, I don't think I should say. I mean, they could kill me!"

Arith's eyes narrowed, but Lydia was ready with an understanding voice, and a strong word at her lips. "And when they expect you to come for your next dose? I doubt you are the only one held thrall by their poisons either, are you?"

Wujeeta looked long and hard at the bottle in her hands, a nervouse tremble in her fingers. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you. I get my skooma from a mer called Sarthis Idren. He has some sort of setup over at the Riften warehouse. You can't get inside though. They've kept that place locked up tight since the war began."

Arith cocked her head. "Well, if it locked then someone must have a key, then. A foreman or company owner."

Wujeeta shook her head sadly. "I overheard Bolli say that only the Jarl carries the key to the warehouse. When I meet Sarthis there he's usually waiting for me outside already, with his bodyguard."

Arith looked to Lydia. "Two men then... and the Jarl must already know."

The implication was clear, and Arith could feel her heart sinking in her chest. She didn't want to believe the rot had already spread to the very top of the city.

Wujeeta seemed to share her darkening mood. "If it wasn't for the skooma, I'd already be on my way out of this horrible place. All my gold... completely gone. I'll have to start all over again. I'll never use skooma again. Though I suppose a little mead every now and then would be harmless."

What was one more little vice, after all? Where was the harm in that?

xxx

With the sun setting, and that new revelation still burning fresh in her mind, Arith flung open the doors to the Mistveil Keep and marched inside, Lydia hot on her heels.

"My Thane, please, remember she is still Jarl and there is protocol to be followed! They will throw you out, Dovahkiin or no!"

"I want to hear it from her own mouth, Lydia. Enough with bills and 'on behalf of'! If we are to risk our lives to slay dragons for her and her hold, then Laila Law-Giver can speak for herself!"

Every man and woman of the court looked straight at them from their places around their dining tables, angered, concerned or outright scandalised as Arith spoke those words loud enough for all to hear and strode around around the table, towards the Jarl.

Unmid Snow-Shod, resplendent in his own rare elven armour, stood from his place at the table to block her, and put a hand to the hilt of the huge sword lashed to his back, his voice low and warning. "As Jarl Leila's Housecarl, I ask that you remain a respectable distance from her at all times."

As she slowed her march Arith felt a hand at her arm, and turned to see Lydia shake her head. It was only the most cursory of motions to stop her, but more bold than any other housecarl would have been allowed. "Thank you, Lydia, that's enough."

Arith stepped back, leading Unmid to do so in turn, and looked down to Jarl Laila still in her seat at the table, watching the display with dispassionate eyes.

"You have business with me, Dovahkiin? Take your seat Unimid. She has more than earned the right to speak."

"I've found a skooma dealer in the city. Using *your* property, my Lady."

Laila Lawgiver nodded once and let out a tired sigh. She pushed her plate of half-finished meat away from her. "Yes, I'm afraid we're aware of Sarthis' presence in the warehouse. Unfortunately, we're sure he has informants within the city guard. Every time we've made a move to arrest him, on the premises or not, he's escaped. However, if you want take care of this yourself - tonight, discreetly, while none have time to warn him - you might be able to surprise him. If you work fast."

Arith stared at the Jarl, slouched in her chair. Her manner was unconcerned, as it should be, but there was something in those eyes. A glimmer of determination, or even a challenge. Was she taking the chance to prove her name clear in the eyes of the Dovahkiin, truthful or not, or was this an opportunity too long in coming to get this work done?

"Then with your leave he will be before you tonight, one way or another."

There was a quirk of a smile at the corner of Laila's lips, though whether it was amusement or pleasure Arith couldn't tell. The Jarl kept her emotions too well concealed. "Excellent. Here is the key to the warehouse. See if you can convince him to close down his operation permanently, by word or by blade. Either is acceptable."

xxx

The warehouse was easy to find, being the southernmost building on the docks. Easy access to the piers would have made getting illicit goods into and out of the place trivial, especially when the workers knew what to secrete away when storing the varied cargo coming into the city.

"Arith? Do we enter with weapons drawn? I cannot imagine these men willing to talk when we have the key that only the Jarl should be able to provide."

Arith shrugged. "Maybe I should know better, but let us try to talk first. For all they know, we might be another pair of criminals ready to offer them a deal that they cannot pass up. These days I have been feeling more like a mercenary murderer than any hunter."

Yet Lydia seemed not to mind one bit. "Allow yourself to relish the battles, Arith. Skyrim is overrun by men and women who deserve nothing less than the blade of your axe. They would do the same to the simple working folk of the land, and you should no more deny your Nord blood than you do your Breton fascinations with magic."

Spoken like a true Nord warrior. "Then be ready to defend me, my housecarl, when the inevitable happens."

Though the lights burned inside the door was indeed locked tight, no answer came to Arith's first knock. Not wanting to give them time to pack up and flee, she stuck the key into its hole and strode in. "Show yourself, Dunmer! I know you're in here."

It was not a dark elven face, but a dark elven axe that emerged from the long shadows inside, and Arith did not even have time to fall aside before the blade sliced into both her armour and her left bicep. She fell awkwardly onto the barrels stacked by the near wall, while Lydia followed up behind them both, drawing her sword and cutting the mer across the back in one swift motion.

The attack, so sudden it had been unexpected even when they knew a fight was so likely, had knocked both Arith and her attacker off balance, leaving one moment for her to lay a healing hand on her arm. Another, larger dark elf loomed out of the shadows towards Lydia but the housecarl already had her shield raised, leaving Arith and her attacker to fumble for their weapons, dragging themselves to their knees. The mer that could only be Sarthis grabbed his axe from the floor in the same moment that Arith's bow came over her swiftly healed shoulder, and they drew back the weapon and arrow in time with one another. It was with some satisfaction that she saw in the Dunmer's eyes the realisation that they had both committed to their attacks, and the arrow, shot at point blank range, dug between his eyebrows before his own blade came past her bow to dig into Arith's neck, no longer powered by any strength, only momentum.

It was still enough to make her cry out in pain and clutch the wound, but the fact that she was alive and able to do so meant that she could heal herself. Her bow was not even needed to assist Lydia, the woman slowly cutting at her large attacker's arms and legs while he met only her blade or shield. Soon the man fell, and rather than allow him a final exhausted swing Lydia stuck her sword in his chest, and ended it swiftly.

Arith smiled up at Lydia as she regained her feet, the gash above her shoulder sealing swiftly under her magics. "Next time, we bring weapons drawn after all."

xxx

Back in Mistveil Keep Jarl Laila Law-Giver sat on her dais, actually looking genuinely pleased for the first time since Arith had been given an audience. "It's nice to receive good news for a change. Did you recover anything else from the warehouse worth mentioning?"

Arith bowed briefly, and handed the missive she had found to Anuriel, who in turn passed I to the Jarl. "Knowing they wouldn't be interrupted, they weren't careful about the source of their skooma."

Laila cast her eyes across it quickly, then nodded, her face set in business-like fashion. "Then there's no time to lose. It won't take long for Sarthis's associates to learn of his death. The source of the poison must be destroyed once and for all, otherwise another dealer will simply take his place. And your efforts will not go unnoticed, Dovahkiin, after everything you have done for us. Do this task for me, and there will be a title waiting for you when you return."

xxx

Cragslane Cavern was a day's journey each way, just past Shor's Stone, where the pair had laid up before tackling the mountain. The men and mer within were no challenge, and after the reception Sarthis had given them Arith was not willing to banter or bluff. She shot them in their backs from the shadows until they had gained their wits, and let Lydia take on the survivors as the steadfast housecarl blocked their way up and out of the caves. A few more arrows as they tried to circumnavigate the stairs sped their demise.

After being all but landed on by *another* frost dragon on the road up, what were a few poorly trained smugglers and their thin pet wolves?

Arith ransacked the gambling and smuggling den for all it was worth, while Lydia piled up the bodies, looking for any more names or contacts in their ledgers or pocket books. All the while, both had to wonder why such attacks on these criminal types had grown mundane. The poor, foolish bastards had never stood a chance. Did these dragons choose to fall out of the air into their path for the same reason that Arith now ventured underground on the trail of coin, honour or adrenaline?

Revenge for the slaying of their mountain-top kin? The eager thrill of battle? The knowledge that this Dovahkiin woman would be the end of them is she was not slain? Or orders from whatever Jarl or ruler the dragons might have?

Their work done they both returned to the cave mouth. They would have to sleep within, the air had turned bitterly cold as night had fallen, but the deep autumnal aurora was too beautiful to ignore. After a tiring hike, and battles both dangerous and disturbingly routine, it was nice to stop and wonder at a spectacle that was both majestic and serene. Commonplace, but never dull.

And for some reason such things brought Lydia's humour bubbling up with remarkable ease. "So, are you prepared to be Thaned again upon your return, Arith? If Laila Law-Giver is good to her word, you will have the beginning of a little army of us housecarls."

"*Can* I be Thane of two holds? It is not as though I will be able to stop in Riften, I would guess."

"No, but that did not change Balgruuf's mind when making you Thane of Whiterun. And you did not even accept the property that should be yours."

Arith nodded, turning back into the cave mouth. "Would you have liked to spend these months guarding and empty house?"

"Instead of carrying Dragon Bones around for you?" Lydia laughed. "No, but it might be a close thing, my Thane. Maybe I should feel sorry for whoever must guard your property in Riften, because I doubt the Jarl will be as lenient about that responsibility as Balgruuf."

xxx

Honeyside couldn't be called a large house, by any stretch of the imagination. Only two real rooms made up its city level interior, and though lined with as many cupboards, bookcases and chests as a building twice its size, those living quarters and bedroom still seemed somehow spacious enough to suffice.

Perhaps because the place was hers, Arith considered. She'd never owned property before, and maybe that coloured her view of the waterside abode. The fact that she could go out into what would soon be a garden and into the city, or outside the walls down the dock-ways instead was a nice choice to have. Tempting fate with the criminal element in the city, perhaps, but sitting on the wooden stairway outside of an evening might be a pleasant way to spend it.

When she was there.

The utilities downstairs she was less impressed with, she had to admit. It smelt a little damp, and aside from the kitchen and storage it felt strangely bare when the more nicely kept upper rooms looked so warm and lived-in with her small collection of books on the shelves, and Thaning weapons hung on the walls.

Anuriel had already made many suggestions of ways to put that space to use, and Arith had paid for them all to be completed in short order. She had been in no want of gold, and still had some left for supplies, come time to leave again and finally hunt those bandits she had been given the warrant for.

But for now she was content to stretch out in the comfortable double bed, and sleep in her own home for the first time since her teenaged years.

'~Well done! Your continued efforts have been of great benefit to the people of Riften. Allow me to present you with this compensation for your selfless efforts. I've been informed by my steward that you've made quite an impression in the Rift...'

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Arith had been hoping to hear words like that from the Jarl, so when they had come she had bowed her head and felt that tingle of reverence that she had not experienced since childhood. Since coming back, there had always been that worry, that dark suspicion, that Laila Law-Giver had been in on all of it. Paid for by the thieves and the Black-Briars, and finally she was willing to genuinely believe that was not the case.

Her new housecarl, Iona, reinforced that feeling. With Lydia in tow Iona would not be one to travel with her, and instead would likely spend much time doing what housecarls were *supposed* to do: defending the Thane's property. And who better than an earnest, straight talking and almost naively loyal sounding woman like Iona.

She actually sounded a little thick, if Arith were feeling unkind, but that was likely not the case. She was just... *unexpectedly* earnest in her pledges of loyalty, and a touch overly eager to welcome her new Thane in that straight, stern voice of hers. It was eerie, but she seemed like a perfectly nice woman underneath all that oh-so-active formality.

Lydia had been that formal with her, back in Whiterun. If only briefly.

'~Much like Mjoll, you've become a champion of our hold. Helping people with their difficulties and providing assistance for their needs. As Jarl of Riften, I feel it is my duty to honour your selfless behaviour by honouring you with the title 'Thane of Riften'.'

Now Iona lay in her own bed, below, and Arith looked past her feet beneth the warm, comforting blankets to Lydia, sat upright on the chair opposite.

"So, twice Thaned after all. What say you of this turn of events, my housecarl?"

Lydia's face, already smiling faintly, could not restrain her amusement. And what looked like genuine happiness for her, if Arith allowed herself to read that much.

"I would say that for a wayward woodland mercenary, fleeing the executioner's block, you have turned out to be a... what's the word... trigger, for some astonishingly good work."

"Or a magnet for men who need such work done." Arith certainly didn't feel like a trigger of anything. Life just kept hurling these trials at her, and as a Nordwoman she was bound to face them head on. Running had saved her life as a child, but almost ended it as an adult.

Lydia shrugged. "True, you and I have done more travelling and warring in these past weeks... is it months now?"

Arith couldn't say. It somehow felt like an eternity, but can't really have been all that long at all. "I don't know. I haven't tracked dates for so long now."

"Either way, even the Jarl said it. We have done what some would call a lifetime's work already. And it is not nearly over, is it?"

'~You've solved more problems in your short time here than anyone in my court has their entire career. You've been a beacon of hope for my people in these dark times, and I will never forget it.'

"No. As much as I might want it to be... I don't think it will be over for a long time."

Those words of Laila's had not only given Arith back some of her confidence in Riften, but also in herself. In the scope of what she had done, and what she could still do. Confidence more than just mead-fuelled, and pleasure more than just the selfish pride in slaughtering bandits.

"Lydia, stop sitting there and watching me like some smirking, voyeuristic statue. Come to bed and sleep already."

Lydia looked to the door that led to the dockside. "I am not sure I can rest as easily here as you, Arith. Not yet."

"Feh, the door is plenty solid, as is its lock. Stop worrying and come to bed."

"A housecarl's bed should be between the doorway and her Thane. Or offer an easier rush to her aid than stairs up from the basement."

Arith gave her a hooded stare. "Lydia. Stop fussing. I wish to sleep, and I wish you to have slept when we venture out to kill the bandits at Treva's Watch, and that will be yet *another* day of hiking and war. Would you not want to be at your best to protect your Thane when we arrive?"

Lydia gave her a short glare, before sighing and tiredly lumbering over to take a side of the bed for herself. The side between Arith and the doorway. "Your mastery of words is both annoying and painful in its accuracy, my Thane."

Arith smiled at a job well done, and shifted over to let Lydia lie next to her, pleasantly warm. "Then we are well suited to each other. Sleep well, dear friend."

"You as well, Arith."

xxx

The journey towards the watch the next morning turned out to be an unexpectedly worthwhile one, because while attacks from desperate, solitary bandits were not uncommon, having one wearing an ebony chest plate die upon your sword was valuable beyond measure. Ebon arms were uncommonly hard wearing - and as such hard to work at a forge - so armour made of the mineral was rare and much sought after by the wealthier career soldiers.

Even better the dead woman who had worn it had been only a shade taller and just as well built as Lydia, and so the cuirass fit her well, quickly replacing her orcish suit once the redguard woman's blood had been washed from it in the lake.

"I would thank her," commented Arith, "if not for the sword she tried to plant in me."

Lydia just shook her head in mild disgust, looking at the body. "The incompetent woman can't have earned this through skill at arms. Murder or theft in the dead of night, more likely. It is just as well she received what was coming to her while wearing it."

xxx

Afternoon was slowly turning into evening as they crossed the river towards the keep of Treva's Watch, and it was there that they found the camp. Two men and one woman, all in simple, battered armour and looking several weeks unclean sat around a smouldering fire, and Arith and Lydia were all but on top of them before any of the trio even looked up to witness their approach. And only the elder of the two men bothered to hold her gaze for more than a moment.

Arith looked from them to the keep, towering over them from around the cliffside. "What's going on here? It can't be safe camped out here, if there are bandits in the Watch."

The old man's face appeared to waver between exasperation and joy as he spoke. "Finally, reinforcements have arrived. I was expecting more though. You'd better be good."

"Had I now? I take it you've not heard of Arith Half-Blind then? You'd be the few left in the hold who haven't."

That seemed to be all the boasting that the man and his two weary looking friends required. "Good. Well, you were told right. The place - my home - is crawling with bandits. We lost some good men trying to take it earlier."

And Arith could see why. Their armour was meagre at best, and what weapons lay by the tent looked old, and made of cheap iron. All the skill in the world wouldn't help against a lucky arrow or axe if a warrior's equipment could not stand up the tasks intended for it. Their gear was for simple men-at-arms or caravan guards, not soldiers looking to take a keep. "You would be... Stalleo then?"

The elder man nodded. "I suspect Burid planned this. There's been bad blood between us since the king's death. But to invade my home... kidnap my family."

Arith's eyes narrowed a little "That's more than just 'bad blood'." Especially if the second party was a bandit gang. Exactly what kind of dealings had this guardsman been up to?

Not that it mattered. Stalleo and the entire river trade had clearly paid dearly for his laxness, and he was obviously not intending to speak further on it.

"You ask a lot of questions for a mercenary. Just get inside and open the gate, we'll try and provide help once that's done. I wish we could offer more than that, but our last attack went sour, and we're all that's left."

Three people? All that was left of the entire garrison and staff at Treva's Watch were three tired and battered soldiers? Arith looked to Lydia, who clearly understood the situation. They would have to deal with the innards of the Watch themselves. Hopefully this meagre cavalry would come to their aid when the time to re-take the courtyard did come, and provide some respite from the gang they would have to cut through just to get that far.

Attempting to go in through the front walls would have been suicide. It was sturdy, and looked to be well manned by bandit standards. Doable if Arith and Lydia's past assaults help any weight, but not worth the risk. It was the escape tunnels that would provide them their entrance, just as they had for Burid's gang. The once well hidden passageway had been thoroughly cleared, and the entrance cave left plain for anyone to see. There would be men waiting, Stalleo's failed assaults would have made sure of that, but Arith would have the benefit of darkness from which to shoot her bow, rather than hiding from the moonlight that now shone clearly across the courtyard and hillside beyond.

Lydia hung back, knowing how loud her plate boots would sound on the hewn stone floors, and Arith crept along in front, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked ready for any patrol that might appear.

There were none. The first signs of life were at the wide steps up from the tunnels and into the keep proper, where three bandit guards wandered idly, completely unaware and unprepared for anyone to actually show their heads from the darkened passageway.

Arith knelt against one wall, and lined up her shot. She could have stuck any one of them with an arrow easily, but while just as poorly equipped as the men outside, these three looked in good shape, and might be able to take a shot and still stand to fight if her aim was off. Instead, distracting them to give her more time to shoot before the call of attack was sounded was the better option, and the oil-burning dish, hung from the ceiling to give the three light, presented one that the bandits would not be able to ignore.

Her arrow struck the dish with a clang, tipping it over and spilling the flaming oil across both the floor and the man she had timed to be walking under the thing as she shot. That alone would have been enough as the three stepped back in panic, one man already burning, but the floor must not have been properly cleaned of spilled spirits or lamp oil, because a full third of the room lit up like a furnace, consuming all three of the guards.

Shocked at the extent of her plan's success, Arith paused only for a moment before putting all three out of their misery, before they could flee towards her, or further into the Watch. Lydia's heavy footfalls came swiftly, but she had little to do even when the largest of the guards did fly down the steps, screaming hoarsely as he burned, an arrow lodged in his chest.

And that was the end of them. The fire died quickly, whatever residue had coated the floor burning away to nothing, leaving only the wooden table and splashes of oil from the lamp dish to flicker on.

And though the pair were wary as they ventured further inside, that brief cacophony had drawn no-one's attention. The smith woman a few rooms up continued to work her makeshift forge, grumbling all the while until an arrow found its way into the back of her head, and she slumped over her anvil, dead in an instant. Bandits sleeping or at leisure around their tables met similar fates, and even the man Arith assumed to be a chief among them, sat at his chain in full plate armour - no doubt looted when the keep had been taken - only had time to rise and draw his sword before Lydia had sheathed her own between the joints of his armour, and through his ribcage.

That luck, and the element of surprise that had served them so well, fled them at the main tower of the keep. The single bandit ascending in front of their stealthy advance took an arrow in the back and collapsed like a noisy rag-doll, falling limp and clattering down the stone steps until Arith's boot stopped his descent. She, and Lydia below, paused to see if the sound had alerted anyone at all - as if the sound of their slaughtering so far had not been enough already.

But no, no further sound came, and so they climbed as quietly as they could to reach the tower room, pleased with their easy work. Another simple opening of a door, and an arrow or three to slay whoever now resided in those high quarters, and all that would remain was the courtyard. It might even be nice to face a real fight with those guards outside, after the skulking and backstabbing that had brought them this far with such unexpected ease.

It was no sooner than Lydia had braced to open the door, Arith's arrow already drawn, that the bandit captain waiting within sprung his own trap. The door slammed open into Lydia's face knocking her back across the entrance way at the top of the stairs, and the man in heavy plate armour burst through, his scream of rage muffled within a full helm.

Arith's arrow slipped from her grasp as she stumbled back and almost slipped down the stairs, neither one of them prepared to be jumped after so much easy prey. A curse escaped her lips as she steadied herself, reaching for her quiver, but already she could see the heavy warrior lay into Lydia. His mace cracked across her temple before she could recover to defend herself, cushioned by her own helmet thank the Divines, but Arith had barely grasped her arrow before the bandit chief followed through, and brought his weapon up and into Lydia's reeling forehead.

The brave, steadfast woman crumpled as her legs gave out beneath her, and already Arith could hear the sounds of spellcasting back within the room. But there was no time to worry for Lydia's safety or of what might follow this titan of a man, because he had barely stopped in his stride to fell Lydia before his step took him forward again, and towards Arith. He knew one threat was down for now, and only one more remained.

And Arith realised how careless they had been. She had no time to draw her own axe or shield now, and her arrow gave no promises against a man in plate armour so easily within reach of her. They had bet their attack on arriving unnoticed, and now their enemy had the upper hand.

She backed down the stairs to escape a swing of that mace, and did the only thing she could think to do.

"IIZ!"

The world in front of her was filled with freezing mist, and Arith stepped back again, ready for anything. But all that met her was the frozen statue of the bandit leader, topping forwards to clatter down the stairway. For the second time today Arith stopped the body with her boot and shot her already drawn arrow into the man's head, shattering the ice and penetrating his helm. Even if he were still alive, he would be fit for no more fighting when he thawed.

Then she remembered that the fight was not yet over, and dashed back up the steps, dropping her bow for her axe and shield against the mage within. "Lydia, to me!"

There was no movement from Lydia's crouched form.

"Lydia...?"

The warrior woman who had travelled and battled with her across the length and breadth of Skyrim, remained frozen in place, having caught the same frigid lick of Arith's Word as the bandit had. Worse still, she was frozen in place with her hand no longer clutching her sword, but grasping at a shaft of ice buried in her gut. The thing had penetrated her new ebon armour through the weak point she had made when putting down the assassin who had owned it last.

"No... Lydia, no! LYDIA!"

Tears leaped from Arith's eyes and down her furious cheeks, crystallising from the lingering cold in the air as she turned to face the mage behind her, and screamed out every ounce of rage within her.

Between her axe, her hands, her boots and her tongue, she tore the man apart, and only then did grief manage to overcome her.

xxx

It was a long walk back to Riften. Laden down with Lydia's belongings, as well as her own, it might easily take two days. The weather held, the trees remained green and lush despite the cold, and the lake glittered whenever the sun appeared to try and warm its frigid surface.

Somehow, the Rift still remained the most beautiful hold in Arith's eye. It soothed the hurt in her chest, and the aching that already took hold of her feet. She could fill her mind with the lapping of water and the sound of insects and birds, and lay them over the cold horror that had wrapped itself around her heart that last night, and frozen it solid.

Because in all likelihood, it had been Arith who had killed her. The blows of Burid's mace had not been enough to fell her, or even break bone, thanks to Lydia's orcish helm. And the bolt of ice that had torn through her armour, and into her body... it hurt whenever Arith had wished and prayed and cried to the Divines for that to have been the fatal blow. That it could have pushed her courageous, dutiful, kind companion beyond her power to withstand the pain and physical punishment she had taken, and in so short a space of time.

But she had taken such wounds before, and survived them thanks to magical healing, or arcane poultices. She might have been clinging to consciousness as she knelt by that wall, blood in her eyes and a spear of ice in her gut, needing only the healing hand that she trusted would be there for her. That Arith would have done anything to be able to give it, if only she could turn back time.

But no, instead of healing, Arith had given a frigid coffin to the one true friend that remained in the world. A shell of ice, to sap the last of the will Lydia might still have held on to. In her blind panic Arith had done that to the woman she trusted with her life, and would have trusted with her heart, if only there had been more time to admit as much. If only Lydia might have been able to understand, after losing the man *she* had loved.

By the Gods, how that hurt. A long, cold ache, desperate and lost. Without direction for her anger, or her grief. She didn't remember clearing the courtyard alone, and never saw the faces of the men she killed through the veil of tears that filled her vision. She did not even think of open the gates until after they were all dead, stuck with arrows and painted with axe wounds that Arith did not remember inflicting.

In fact, all she remembered was her tearful night's sleep within the keep, knowing Lydia lay in the next room, waiting for her to do something with her body. Stalleo and his two remaining people helped Arith bury her that morning. It would have been foolish to try and take her back to Riften, or all the way to Whiterun. Even if her family had a barrow, Arith would not have wanted her interred there. Not after all the draugr she had fought in such places. They were traditional burials, but too easily tainted by the Daedra. Stalleo assured her a headstone would be made, as soon as the Watch was manned and back in order.

And even cold and dead, consigning her body to the earth, Lydia still managed to look strong and beautiful. Even after suffering a warrior's death, as all true Nords hoped for. Even without that playful smirk of her upon her face.

If Arith had begun crying again as she trudged onwards, she didn't realise it. The birds, crickets and the sound of the lake gently lapping at its own shores was all that she allowed into her mind. That would get her home to Riften. What then, she didn't know, but it kept her moving forward, one heavy footstep after another.

xxx

Honeyside had seemed quiet for a city house, even on her first night. Whatever illicit sales or deadly dealing went on after sundown, they had been conducted out of earshot, and the footsteps of the guard were muffled even on the flagstones outside her door. The lapping of the windswept lake against the wooden docks on the other side of the city wall, right outside her back door, were the loudest sounds to reach Arith's restless ears, and their regular splashing did nothing to lull her back to sleep.

Returning to Riften at the crack of dawn, she had walked for two nights and a day non-stop. Sleep at the Watch had offered her nothing but tearful nightmares, and so she had foregone it from then on. Any animal foolish enough to cross her path had had the life ripped from them by her enchanted axe, and no bandit had approached.

In her fevered and confused imagination, none had dared.

The report of her success had brought her no pleasure, and nor had the monetary reward. The Jarl and her steward had shown no interest in her misery, and so she had not shared it wish them. Those she knew in the city she avoided, and though tempted to seek solace and comfort in the church she bypassed Mara's house to return to her own new home. The priests would have better work to do than console a heartbroken fool.

Arith should be glad that Lydia died in glorious, vicious battle. Glad that she had fulfilled her duty to the utmost of her ability. The specifics did not matter. She died so that Arith could live, as she was duty-bound to do.

But that Airth had been the one to seal her fate... most likely... and that Lydia had to have been such a companion to her through so many trials...

If only she had never been a warrior, but someone to be kept out of such harm's way, instead. Someone to cherish, with no battle-bond to stand at each other's backs.

Somehow, Arith had managed to sleep, almost as soon as her head had hit the pillow, and the day had passed her by. Iona must have put away her things, and understood Arith's brief explanation of Lydia's fate to store them for future battles or set them out to be sold.

So when Arith awoke in her large, comfortable bed, night had descended already, and the city was as fast asleep as it was ever able to manage. And she awoke not in tears, but in a fit of rage. *How* had any of this been possible?! What right did the Divines see to take away her family, then her hunting troupe, and now the one friend she had let back into the reckless, war-bound mess that had become her life? What right did Arith herself have to wish that she could have taken away Lydia's choice to remain at her side, and how *dare* these bandits, dragons, greybeards and her own Jarls play her like a puppet in their petty wars of politics, territory and power!

Arith lay for hours, fuming, indulging so many fantasies of revenge and of a better life that she might have had if only she had not let overconfidence claim her, and claim the life of another she had come to love. Somehow she would tear out the hurt that burned like ice deep in her chest, and she would make the land of Skyrim pay for everything it had done to her. She would find a way. By this point, why would it matter how? She had done her work for Riften, and Delphine could go and drown in her conspiracy theories for all Arith cared.

For hours Arith plotted such things in her imagination. She was going to take back control of her life, and bend the bastards of Skyrim under her own thumb for a change. She would make them pay for taking Lydia from her, if only she knew how.

xxx

Aela sat at her table alone, around the back of Jorvaskrr, and watched the moon as it traced its arc across the sky. With battle on the horizon again, sleep would be long in coming for her. Defending the hold was one thing, but the companions had their own wars to wage, and Aela was eager to take the front line. She was proud of both her heritage, *and* of her blood. In all likelihood she would remain so until the day Hircine took her. She might not have Kodlak's wisdom or experience, but she could better him for resolve, and for passion. Of that she was sure.

It was only when the moon had risen high that she herself rose. Whether tiredness came to her that night or not, she still had to try and sleep. It would not come easily, or quickly, but it had to come before the battle. She had to be ready.

As she rose, a lone figure appeared in the shadows, coming around the side of the Companions' building.

"Njada? You are awake still?"

The figure and her shield approached, and stepped out under the light of the moon. She looked tired and worn, her face a mask or dark, hardened resolve, her right eye white and dead.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Arith said, her voice low. "I'm ready."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

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(c) Nutzoide 2012


	8. A Bloody Swath

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 8: A Bloody Swath

The ritualistic drinking of Aela'a blood led to a rampage that lasted a day and a night. The beast that dwelled beneath Arith's skin was a wild and vicious one, more than able to sate its own bloodlusts with man, mer and beast alike. Aela and Skjor had herded her out of Whiterun and into the woods to the east, but a first transformation into the wolf-warrior was always untamed. Only time could make it withdraw, releasing the human bound within, and Arith had been restless. In desperate need of that primal, rage-filled release.

She had woken naked, cold and hungry in the woods, beneath the blanket Aela had provided. Her sleep had lasted almost as long as her fury, and she could still taste the blood in her mouth. The blood of whatever had last been unlucky enough to cross her path. She did not remember what, or who, it might have been. Those hours would forever remain a blur. A half-remembered dream, foggy and indistinct, but both sickening and so deeply satisfying.

And as she dressed again, Aela had remained quiet, her words few, but warm and welcoming. Like a mother to her daughter, patiently teaching her how to raise her new child. How to satisfy the beast within. How to know when her blood was too needy. How to alter her armour in case there was no time to remove it, so as not to damage it from the change. And who their enemies were.

The silver hand, a cabal of werewolf hunters, kept a large base off the beaten track at a place called Gallows Rock. An ominous name, but one not befitting the tactics of the men they sought. "Be careful now," Aela had advised, when they approached the place. "Their leader is a tricky one. They call him the skinner. I don't think I need to tell you why."

But care was too far from Arith's mind. This new restlessness, the energy and craving for the hunt, was overwhealming. The day's travel to the place seemed like mere minutes. It was not the transformation she craved, but the hunt itself. Woman or beast, it might have been the same for all she could feel. Her blood boiled and sang in her tempestuous Nordlander veins, and it called for battle!

One inside the place, it seemed only right to force the change upon herself. Bones twisted and cracked, muscles stretched and warped, and through the adrenal pain her skin itched as her new fur grew. If these men were werewolf hunters, then it was only fitting that they die under the claws of their prey, and let Arith sate her blood's hunger again.

Some men fought bravely against Arith's clumsy blows and Aela's keen blade, while others screamed and ran at the sound of her furious animal voice. Strength was not the measure of a man's spirit, and the hardiest of men were counted among those that cowered beneath Arith's flying claws and gnashing teeth. Some fell as she leapt them in one go, to bite out their troats as if it was second nature. Lunging for the neck in order to claim the kill came so much more redily than trying to claw the men down while upright.

From each one, whether her kill or not, she ate. The meat that filled her stomach, and the blood coating her snout and gullet, called for company. One man's flesh became two, which became four, and then eight. Now that she was the wolf the feeding was addictive, and yet still served to keep her blood bloiling as it pumped through her. It would not allow her to calm until the entire complex was dead, and she had taken her mouthful of flesh from every one of them.

'The Skinner' himself was easy to find, treating pelts in his rooms while women attended to him and his work. And for all his apparent fame and skill, he and his girls turned at fled at the first sight of Arith's bestial form charging down into them, and the sound of her feral rage. Felling the women was a simple matter. A single leap to knock each one to the ground before they could draw a blade or bow, and their flesh yealed to her claws and teeth easily. 'The Skinner' himself ran to hide and steady himself in the rear passageways that were his quick route out of the complex, and yet Arith had slain his attendants swiftly enough to catch him there, before he could unbar the door out.

He fought well for a man soaked in fear and urine, but he was clearly used to an unfair fight, or to catching his prey unawares. Arith wore him down quickly, his armour no match for her claws, and as she tore open his chest Aela joined them to put an arrow into his heard, and end his suffering quickly.

Aela retreated then, leaving Arith searching for more men to kill. For blood to drink, to keep her restless heart alive for just half a minute more. But they were done, and soon enough the transformation faded. Fur was shed, muscles pulled taught, and her snout forced its way back into her skull, to leave her scarred face as it was meant to be.

And she ached. She hurt. She felt bloated with her feast. The hunters might have been good prey, but they had stuck her with arrows and blades, and those wounds showed as faint blemishes on her pale skin. As she looked down, she saw her stomach sore and distended from the meat she had eaten. She was restless for a fight still, but returning to the trophy chamber made newly changed legs ache, and her swollen belly forced her to go slowly or stagger from the discomfort.

Eventually her body gave out, and she threw up what must have been five pounds of raw, shredded meat.

Aela walked over to her as she knelt over the skinner's work bucket, now full with gore and bile. "And that, Shield-Sister, is why I said not to let the hunger control you. It is easy to muzzle - to pace your need with that of the battle, and that of your body – once you know to."

Then, as Arith wiped her mouth, Aela's face hardened. "Come. See why we must destroy these people."

Up on the raised platform, beneath the werewolf heads that hung from plaques above, lay the bodies of several men. If they had been werewolves, then they had been slain in their human forms, and among them was Skjor's.

"The bastards. He was one of the strongest we had... but numbers can overwhealm. He should not have come without a Shield Brother."

She turned to Arith, handing her her clothing. "Get out of here. I'm going to make sure we got the last of them, and see if there is any information to be had from the bodies. You and I have work to do. The Silver Hand will tremble at the sight of us."

Arith wasn't ready to return to Whiterun though. She had to walk off her aches, placate her sore stomach, and something in her writhed, needing direction. Purpose. Prey. "Then if we are to make it such, who will be our first target? I…" she thought how to word her need. Her desire to hunt; for her own sake, for the sake of Lydia's death, and for the thrill that still hummed in the back of her nerves. "We need not wait."

Aela looked at her curiously, then allowed a shadow of a smile to break through her mask of resolution as she stood over Skjor's body. "Then, if you are ready, Shield Sister. The Silver Hand has been scouring the world for more pieces of Wuuthrad. We know one group has hidden out in the rift. Find them and get it back, for the honour of all of us."

Arith nodded, lay a hand on Aela's shoulder for the sake of solidarity, and left to find her belongings where she had stowed them away before forcing her blood to change her. Outside, the moonlit sky was clear, the snow crisp, and though her blood roiled her heart was cold. What she had just done, for all its discomforts, felt good. And not because her anger had been unleashed on such deserving people. The sooner she could let free that beast again, no matter the cause, the better she would feel.

xxx

Though the trek would be longer, Arith walked the line of the river so as to pass by Kynesgrove again as a layover, an then down the eastern edge of the volcanic plains. She now knew from experience as well as hearsay that giants and mammoths walked those blasted plains, and she intended to claim them.

No, she knew from the fading scratches and wounds she had to heal that her werewolf claws would be no match for either target, never mind if thery attacked en masse, but for her own sake she had to push her boundaries. To take the risks. Planning for such difficult battles would keep her mind occupied, and the wolf spirit that was now her own could wait in expectation, rather than axiousness. She was confident in her skills with the bow now, and dwarf-made arrows would pierce their hides well.

Then she could claim both the thrill of victory, and with her enchanted axe, their souls. Though hugry for the fights ahead, she was still afraid that she would evolve into nothing but a murderer if she did not keep her skills trained. In Riften maybe, if she could bear to sit still and work the forge or an enchanting table… There she could push her limits as well. Put to work what she had practiced and theorised, and work mind and muscle alike to better equip her for the hunting ahead.

That was for the future though, in the days to come. It would take the rest of the day to reach Kynesgrove, and another two to travel down the plains if she intended to hunt en route.

So distracted was she with forward thinking that the dragon overhead had landed before she had even realised it had been there. It sent the farmers and fishermen scattering around their little villagew before a long arrow from Arith turned its attention away from the scurrying victims it had so far only scared, and sensing a real fight it took to the sky again.

That suited Arith well enough. Though difficult to hit once flying, shooting at a rising dragon, or a landing one, was simple. And from that height it could do little to her but breathe a token frosting of cold air at her. Not enough to worry her.

At least ten of her arrows had hit their mark in its leathery trunk before it landed again for good, beside the sawmill and fishing queys on the river. Emboldened by its apparent plight two of the villagers came out to fight it, wielding old swords of their own. They did not survive their mistake. Though clearly hurting, the dragon still swallowed the smaller man whole, choking him down its gullet like a heron with an oversized fish. His friend just stared in horror, grief turning his sword against the dragon's forelegs and snout with the fury of a man possessed by nothing but sorrow and vengeance.

The dragon's claws stuck in his chest and tore him open with little effort.

And all the while Arith shot her arrows into the dragon's body and neck. She had shouted a warning to the men, but too late to save them. And they had put up so little fight. Lydia had faced dragons larger and more worrisome than this, and survived them all. Skill and confidence had served her well, where these men merely fell at the dragon's whim.

When the second man hit the floor Arith slung her bow back across her back, and drew her axe. With shield ready to absorm the beast's breath she strode up to it with a cold heart, and even her beast blood could not provide more thrill than her human desire to murder this lizard for bringing back memories still too fresh. The tired and pained dragon could not quite escape her axe in time and she hacked into its face, tearing through scale and muscle, and into the bone using every ounce of strength she had. Using that leverage she simply climed up to straddle the beast's roaring head, and cleaved into it until it could stuggle no longer.

She dismounted as it began to melt away into the air, and its soul entered her beasting breast. The thrill of a kill so richly deserved, of blood claimed, and of her soul merging with the power of this newest dragon. A tear escaped her dead right eye. "Oh Gods, if only you were still here with me for this…"

Though the villagers streamed out to offer thanks and congratulations, Arith left with very few words, now looking forward only to a restless night's sleep at Kynesgrove.

xxx

A week later Arith left Riften by the south gate, her mind once again focused on the task ahead instead of trying to occupy it with hard graft. It had been difficult to work, going from the smithy to her home at Honeyside, the Pawned Prawn, and the market, without meeting too many old and familiar faces, or answering too many questions. How the dragon hunting went, for instance. Where Lydia was. And whether she had been spending too much time at the local kennels, given how she apparently smelled of wet dog.

That had been prompting enough for her to bathe in the lake outside. There was one face she had taken most pains to avoid though; that of Mjoll the Lioness. Artih respected Mjoll. Liked her. She had her priorities straight, and unlike most, the tenacity to live up to them.

Artih didn't know whether she could look her in the eye now, so she made sure she didn't have to. Mjoll had her own tasks to worry about, after all. Arith simply made sure she wasn't about when her tasks were done for the day.

For her effort and her sweat her old elven armour had been replaced in full. She strode out wearing a full suit of alchemical glass, worked to a standard that the smith himself admitted he would have been unlikely to replicate. He had even insisted that he help her finish it, as it would not have done to let so solidly forged a set of armour leave his shop without adequate cleaning and decoration.

All Arith cared for was that it protected her, and indeed, she had been a natural at working with the stuff. Not that a potion of acuity had not aided her when it came to put the forged plates together and hammer them into something more than just adequate. But even so, alchemical glass was no simple matter to forge, and that she had managed so well, and with such ease, was a source of pride.

The souls of two giants and their pair of mammoths, not to mentions some unruly sabre-cats, infused the lot with much the same enchantments as she had placed in her old armour. Acurate vision for her archery, stoutness for her stamina, a strengthened arm each for her shield and her axe. She was already a skilled warrior, but with her magics imbuing her war gear, she would be fearsome indeed.

In those evenings after work in Riften, Honeyside felt cold and hollow, even with Iona there. She was a good woman, but her presence only reminded her how she had let her *first* housecarl down. Her library of books, collected on their travels, sat unread, and Arith enchanted her craftings at the Jarl's manor, not the table beneath her own home. She returned only to sleep, and each evening prowled the city where Mjoll would not likely be that given night, looking for clues.

And she'd found them. The Silver Hand had been quiet and subtle, but their retrieving of a fragment of Wuuthrad had not gone entirely without boast. The victor in question was camped in the cave of Broken Helm Hollow, a small cavern by a waterfall just south fo Riften, around the back side of the rocky hills there.

It was on the way there that Arith, newly equipped and driven by a feral need for battle more than a week in the making, was accosted by a woman in armour that might have been the mirror of hers, if not for the hood rather than Arith's helm. The glass was duller than her own, Arith noted, not without condecention. Though alchemical glass was rarely transparent, the sheen across its vivid surface showed the purity of the forge-mixture, and how well it had been treated as it cooled, to keep its strength.

Arith drew her bow before the woman could reach her. In either hand the stranger wielded a sword, and she indended to take to take none of this woman's idioct once she opened her mouth.

"Alright, hand over your valuables or I'll gut you like a fish!"

Arith grimaced in disgust. What was it with such well equipped bandits in the Rift, all so full of themselves. "Walk away. Right now."

The woman smirked and hefted her two weapons. "Nice try, but you don't scare me."

She charged with a cry, but Arith didn't lift a finger to defend herself.

"I should. IIZ!"

The temptation was there, so strong, to change right then and rip the now frozen woman to pieces as her frozen form toppled over. But that took energy, and she would need that energy for the Silver Hand that awaited her just around the hill. It was only fitting that when she unleashed herself, that they be her prey.

Instead she shot the frozen woman in the head, and when her body jerked and twitched free of the ice, her death throes not yet done, Arith put two more arrows beside the first to finish her off.

"And that is better than you deserve, murderous thief."

xxx

The cavern entrance was a small one, unassuming if not for the two men who stood guarding it. On seeing Arith aproach, resplendent in her green and gold armour, they stepped forward, drawing weapons.

"Hold friend," the more sensible of them called to her. "The righteous Silver Hand occupies the Hollow now. What business do you have here?"

Arith did not stop however, or draw weapons, but she loosened the catch she had made into her armoured chestplate, and it fell away, leaving her only in her underpadding. "Much the same as yours, hunter."

She let the change overwhealm her, finally free after a week of domestic trial. The beast was glad to meet even the glare of the sun it so disliked. And as her jaws and nose warped and cracked, bone and teeth and muscled flowing forwards, her tongue still worked. "I seek prey!"

The two men attacked even as she spoke those words, hacking at her new fur and hardy skin, but their blows did little to hurt her, and they fell in moments. As she ate from their torn throats, her strained human sensibility reigned in the overwhealming lust for meat as best it could. Those men had been no hunters. Merely new recruits or messengers, probably still in training.

Inside, two more members slept, likely to provide a night watch for their dead companions. Neither had a chance to wake before Arith leapt them and tore them apart. She was eating from the corpses when her true prey anouced herself, clanging a mace head to her shield, taunting her to charge. "More of you here?! You shan't claim my prize, animal!"

Now aware of the warrior woman on the walkway above, Arith turned from her meal and sprinted on all fours towards her, while the Silver Hand hunter breaced for the impact. Unlike her dead fellows this one knew what she was doing, and was used to leading a hunt. The smell of her dominance was overpowering, taunting Arith's nostrils with impudent arrogance, and even the deepest roar was not enough to make this one back down and cower, like it had so many other 'hunters' in Gallows Rock.

She was clearly practiced at hunting werewolves, and every snap of Arith's jaws was caught by the rim of the woman's shield. Every swipe of her claws hit polished steel, or the head of her weapon, but Arith could not back down. A full, furious bloodlust had overcome her, and each failed attack only enraged her further. Had she still had a human tongue, she would have screamed herself hoarse, and kept screaming until she finally overhealmed this woman. All the despair, self-pity and rage spilt out of her, and though the hunter could defend herself Artih's attacks were too numerous, too fast and too strong for her to withstand. Eventually she fell under the onslaught, and when she did, Arith surged forward, raking across her back and thighs, turning her into so much meat.

The hunter woman had turned away for a reason though, to trigger the trap on the chest that would hold their prize. The large, spiked ball swung down from the alcove aboce it had been chained to, and smashed into Arith's side, piercing her thick hide and cracking bone. Her bestial form reeled, slumping away from the hidden weapon. Though the beast was in pain, shocked from it's vicroty by such a blow, her sapient mind realised she could cast no curatives until she was human again. If that blow had been more severe, it might have killed her before her naked wolfen form slipped away again.

She resisted the temptation to eat her hard won prey. She had feasted on four men already, and feeding the bloodlust was foolish now, with no-one left to slay. Even her wolf instincts understood that. When she changed the pain was overwhealming, but she had magic enough to heal the worst of the damage, and a second casting when she was rejuvenated would repair the rest.

Walking naked back through the cave she emerged into the sunlight feeling both pleased with her victory, and sick that she had been so easily baited into that trap. She would learn to better harness the beast in her blood, and listen to her sense as well as her instinct. She must.

She gathered up her armour and parted clothing from outside and returned to sit by the hunter's fire before claiming her prize, and her spoils.

xxx

The return to Whiterun was a long and frustrating journey, punctuated by intense combat as Arith sated both her inner beast and her mother's mage-mindedness, claiming souls from wolves, giant spiders and even another giant, but Aela was waiting for her return at Jorvaskrr. In fact, Aela had been stood right by the door, and took her aside as soon as she stepped foot within the hall.

She didn't wear as smile, but her voice was warm. Arith only now noticed, but much about Aela's manner, though hardly motherly, was warm and comforting. The tone in her words, the sisterly, authoratative smell about her. She was in charge, but posessed no overbearing arrogance about it. "I've been running interference around here. I don't think anyone's caught onto our little campaign yet."

Arith mearly reched for her pack, and the prize within. "I got the fragment."

Aela took it like she would handle a priceless vase. "Another piece of glory. Good work Shield Sister." Her words had an official tone about about, not as joyful as Arith had expected.

That was of less importance than their shared hunt though, and if she could slay more of them, Aela would surely share in her pleasure at that. And she needed direction again. Her mind had wandered on the road, with no tasks to put it to beyond planning ambushes along the way, or practicing petty spellcraft. "Where do I find more of the bastards?"

Indeed, Aela did seem pleased by her question. "It's good that you're so eager. I've got wind that one of the brighter Silver Hands has been sniffing around Whiterun. If you can sneak into their camp and steal his plans, we'll have the advantage."

This lot they knew the location of: The old Swindler's Den where Arith and Lydia had fought the Redguards after that disguised noblewoman, now living as a common barmaid in Whiterun itself. It was only fate, she supposed, that now led her back to that place, to make her wish that her lost friend could be there at her back once again.

Of course, Aela did not know how her mind turned dark at the thought. "I hope the hunting goes well, Sister. We've got the cowards on their heels now."

The trip out was one she knew well, and though the afternoon was not yet late she knew she would not make the den before nightfall. She had two options, either stay in Whitrerun with her pack – no, her Companion friends – and sit on the uneasiness that boiled in her blood, or make the most of the evening and go to war.

She and Lydia had passed Fort Greymoor more than once, and it was no secret that the near-empty place had been taken by thieves and caravan raiders since the army had split and gone to war with itself. They had not wanted to risk such an overwhealming fight, but that had been before Arith had learned to Speak so many Words, and the pair had since re-taken other bantit encampments just as well fortified.

She reached the Fort as the sunlight finished fading, and beneath the light of the moon she disrobed, pale skin shining in the moonlight as she hid her belongings.

She released the wolf.

The sound of battles cries and the screams of the dead and dying quietened the noisy blood that pumped through her ears. Men fell like stalks of barley, their only notice that they were under attack being the cries of their comerades as Arith leaped and sprinted from one to the next. She gave few of them the chance to even make an attack on her, each criminal falling quickly beneath her claws or between her teeth, and in those precious moments when none had a chance to run to the aid of their fellows she ate and drank from whichever victim had fallen last. Man, Mer, Nord, foreigner, it did not matter. The poor cook fell with only a scream, and Arith never knew if she was bandit or captive before she had torn her throat out and dug her fangs into her gut.

With the upper fort clear, leaving only a few scratches on Arith for her trouble, she charged down to the prisons below. A wizard and his guards proved to be a challenge only in that they attacked from range, arrows of steel and ice striking her before each man had a chance to feed her.

And feed she did. Only sparingly, she had no time between kills for more, but well over a dozen men and women were slain that night, and while the bloodlust had claimed her she fed from nearly half of them. Even the mage, the last of them, had flesh ripped from his bones, his soft muscle unhidden by armour, unlike many others.

And so with the blood still flowing fast in her veins, Arith stalked the hallways as a wolf, taking pride in her work, but somehow feeling hollow as she looked at the chaos she had wrought. Lingering as a beast after the battle, the exhultation of the kill ebbed swiftly, to be replaced by tiredness now her belly was full. The werewolf had done its work, and wished to sleep while the human carried the torch now.

And eventually that rhythmic beating of her heart slowed, allowing the change to take her again. She healed her few wounds, but padding cold and naked through the torchlit fort back to find her clothing, the victory seemed just as hollow as it had to her more feral mind. She too was full of meat, grossly full despite her attempted self-restraint, and tiredness hovered at the edge of her mind now that both the wolf and the adrenaline had faded from her.

Rest, however, was beyond her grasp. The spirit of the werewolf churned within her, and left deep, restful sleep a luxury forever dangling just out of reach. The promise was there every time she laid her head down, but each time her body would take only the barest minimum of rest from each night, and her dreams would be as tumultuous and frenetic as the animal that now dwelt along with the souls of so many dragons in her breast.

Though cold, she did not bother to dress. There had been no-one to kill in the bedrooms, and so no bodies to remove. She sat on one of the beds, grimacing a little as her stomach, once again swollen, though not nearly so angrily, gurgled in a mix of discomfort and gluttonous satisfaction. The wolf was not so distinctly separate from the human, after all. She enjoyed the taste of blood, and the uncooked meat did not make her sick in and of itself. It sat well, as long as her body could handle this excess. She pulled the eiderdown over herself, staring at that stomach and the hands atop it.

Did this make her a cannibal? Had she been human even before accepting Aela's blood, and trading every future night's rest for the pleasure of the hunt and the kill and the feasting? She pulled a hand to the underside of her belly to ease the discomfort, and tried to enjoy the quiet night, and the knowledge that no more traders or travellers would fall prey to this band. They had fallen by her hand, fallen so satisfyingly, and even in that memory, though grim, she found a strong current of angry pleasure.

Her energy faded as she sat, slowly coming down from a day of travel and fighting for her life. Eventually sleep managed to overtake her, but even in her dreams she prowled on all fours, no woman left. Only a beast with the tongue of a dragon.

xxx

Between the fort and Swindler's Den lay the giants she and Lydia had bypassed before, and snuck a mammoth tusk from; Sleeping Tree Camp. Arith now had more than a few giant's heads to her name, but never had she attempted to take on a pair of them, and certainly not with three full grown mammoths still under their care.

In the back of her mind she wanted walk on past again, but the opportinuty now seemed too tempting. It would test her skills of archery and axe-wielding to their fullest if she were to claim their souls. Though her equipment was fully enchanted now, she had exhausted her stocks of such powerful souls. She might never get such a chance to replenish them again.

That was her excuse to herself as she knelt atop a flat, rocky perch and drew back the arrow in her bow.

In fact she was indulging herself in the battle just to rekindle that flicker of Nordland pride and werewolf pleasure in the fight, and so overzealous was her need to claim these kills that one of the two giants *and* one of their mammoths fell to over-keen arrows, before her axe had a chance to work its magic and claim them. She was too eager, even after her massacre at Fort Greymoor. She would need to learn how to keep her blood calm, and not squander her skills so easily.

So much effort went into keeping those thoughts in mind that the third mammoth all but ambushed her, charging through the trees and far too close to her for comfort. She was too nimble to let it trample her, and it fell to her axe once the dance had started, but the shock of it only proved that too much worry and self-restraint was as distracting and wasteful as too little was.

xxx

Within the Swindler's Den she found no truly trained warriors. They all fell too easily. She knew now how not to gorge her beast-self on them, and this time that sense won out over the primal hunger.

These Silver Hand must have been new recruits, being taught how to scout for prey before their trainers improved their fighting skill, but even the most capable of them could not even pierce her skin under the assault of tooth and claw. She remembred the layout of the caves, just about, and knew where and when to attack to best ambush them. But the lack of challenge, their blithe ignorance of her presence… This was no hunt, and after the last of them were dead she was left nauseatingly unsatisfied. She had been spoilt by giants, dragons and hunters with skill. A simple scouting and training party was nothing compared to those who had gone before.

xxx

Upon her return to Jorrvaskr, Aela's greeting was similarly tinged with unsatisfied airs. As pleased as she was to receive those plans, there were concerns even closer to her heart than the Silver Hand.

"I fear Kodlak has got wind of our recent efforts so close to home. He's asked to see you." She sighed. Clearly she had expected this, if not so soon. "My advice? Always be honest with the old man, but don't tell him anything he doesn't need to know."

Aela clearly cared for their oldest and wisest warrior, but in much the same way Arih might have for her late grandfather; Old and set in his ways. Someone who had forgotten the way young and vigourous warriors fought. It was perhaps unkind, given everything Kodlak had done for Whiterun through the years, but then Aela was so furious and active in her battles, be they literal or figurative... Perhaps even more so than Arith was, with the wolf leaving her unsatisfied and aching for something more than simple slaughter after that last battle.

Kodlak himself sat at his personal side table, a simple dinner laid out before him. "Thank you for coming, youngling. Have a seat."

Arith took the only other chair at the table. The old man's manner was relaxed and affable, so unlike the intensity within many other Companions, but his eyes were keen. They were all he needed to put her on the spot.

"I hear you've been busy of late."

Arith paused only for a moment. She didn't like talking around the truth with this man, but Aela had been her guide through the rage that she had let overcome her. Even though that rage was no longer so sharp and relentless, she owed Aela that much. "I work for the glory of he Companions."

Kodlak huffed and lay his knife on his plate with a sharp clink, hard enough to rattle the glassware. The pie beside him likewise jumped... and kept twitching under its crust as Kodlak spoke.

"Lass, I know what you've been up to. Mind you, it's no business of mine what each Companion does in the name of honour. But this sneaking around. It does not befit warriors of your standing. Aela knows better, and so should you."

As if to punctuate his words, Kodlak took up his knife again and stabbed whatever was in the pie that kept it bouncing and twitching on the tabletop. Whatever was inside gave a sharp, muffled squeal before falling silent and leaving the pastry stained red.

Kodlak continued as if nothing had happenned. "In any case, I have a task for you. Have you heard the story of how we came to be werewolves?"

She did remember some small rumour. One overheard from Vilkas, perhaps. The 'curse' was laid on them by witches, in ancient times. Arith had paid little attention, she'd had work to do, but the fact that it had happened so long ago had stuck with her.

Kodlak smiled a little, somehow making Arith feel very young and naive. "The boy has a nugget of the truth, but the reality is more complicated than that. It always is."

In fact the beast blood had only 'troubled' the Companions for the last few hundred years, a drop in the ocean for an order that had been in existence for thousands. It had been an ancestor of Kodlak's that made a bargain with the witches of Glenmoril Coven. If the Companions hunted in the name of their lord, Hircine, they would be granted great power. In their simple way, they did not believe the change would be permenant; The witches offered payment for the service, like anyone else. To Kodlak, that was a deception on the witches' part.

"But you wished for power." Arith felt compelled to point out. "Even unarmoured, and unarmed... Power is what you have. I have tasted it for myself." I have gorged on it, even.

And Kodlak did not disagree. "The witches did not lie, you speak true, but it is more than our bodies that are cursed. The disease, you see, seeps into the spirit. Upon death, werewolves are claimed by Hircine, for his hunting grounds. For some this is a paradise. They want nothing more than to chase prey with their master for eternity. And that is their choice. But I am still a true Nord. And I wish for Sovngarde as my spirit home."

"So you do wish to cure yourself. Can it be done?"

The old man cut into his bleeding pie and nodded. "That's what I've spent my twilight years trying to find out. And I've found the answer. Just as the witches' magic enstared us, only their magic can release us. They won't give it willingly, mind, but we can extract their foul powers by force."

His old, kindly eyes turned hard. "I want you to seek them out. Go to their coven in the wilderness. Strike them down as a true warrior of the wild. And bring me their heads. The seat of their abilities. From there, we may begin to undo centuries of impurity."

xxx

It was a three day round trip at best to the Coven's isolated home, and only so quick because the easy main road to Markarth took her much of the way. The forsworn-looking bandits around those parts were no challenge, and though the wolf strained at its leash, Arih dared not release it. Not if it would leave her so full of fight, and so unsatisfied by what she received. It was better to suffer the heat in her veins and restlessness in her breast than the frustrations of the beast unleashed with no hunt to satisfy it.

The witches, likewise, were prey better suited to her bow. They idled around their caverns unaware of the threat that crept among them, and a few arrows was all each required when they did not know whey were under attack.

She did not kill them all though. Kodlak might wish to be cured, possibly some of the others as well. But Aela never would. To her, the wolf was a blessing.

And Arith did not want to let it go either. She still craved that next great hunt. The next slaughter so satisfying that sleep might actually come more easily to her, once her belly was full. She collected the heads of the two she killed, and snuck out as quietly as she had arrived, to make the dull, grey journey back. She would do right by Kodlak, but by Aela as well. Neither would go without the end that they desired, if Arith could help it.

xxx

It was as soon as Jorrvaskr came into sight again that she knew she could not make good on that promise to herself. The steps up to the old hall were ringed by onlookers; Mothers trying in vain to shield their children's excited eyes, warriors rallying with stout calls of congratulation, bemused townsfolk wondering why the confidence and cheer was missing from the Companions that stood victorious over the bodies of their broken and bloody foes.

The answer to that was easy to guess. They had been attacked in their own home, and sooner than even Aela could have guessed.

Arith pushed through the crowd, turning aside men a full head taller than her with strength that could easily match their own these days. No-one but her actually approached, and Torvar turned to her with blade in hand as he stood by the side of the wide stone stairway. Gone was his alcoholic merriment, replaced with dark eyes and a dour tongue.

"What happenned here?" Arith asked, already forgetting the witch heads stashed in her pack.

Torvar shook his head. "The Silver Hand. The finally had the nerve to attack Jorrvaskr. We got most of them, but I think a few stragglers made it out."

Across the stairs Aela stood snarling at the body beneath her feet. It was only a dagger in her hand, but the blade had clearly made her anger clear across her victim's body. "These two aren't a problem any more."

Her words hung though, an unspoken qualification tugging at her tongue that she dared not speak in public. It was enough to make Arith turn and head up to the hall where Farkas' brother, Vilkas, stood guard inside.

"Where have you been?" They they had rarely spoken, the man's voice was harder than Arith remembered it, and tinged with accusation. One which riled her, after everything she *had* been doing for this warrior family.

"I was doing Kodlak's bidding."

Vilkas clearly realised that his tone had done neither of them any favours, and his frustration was replaces with weariness. "I hope it was important, because it means you wheren't here to defend him. The Silver Hand... They finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr. We fought them off but... the old man, Kodlak, he's dead."

He turned to show the old man laid by the fire, relieved of his armour as Farkas and Njada sat by his still, quiet body. Neither one spoke or grieved. At least not openly. Torvas was not so quiet, storming back into the hall and swinging his blade at the air in frustration.

Arith could only stare, disbelieving. It was for *him* that she had been sent to kill those witches. How could they have let him die before his wishes had been brought to fruition? "What about the rest of you!? Where were you?! Is anyone else killed?"

Vilkas shook his head. "No, but they made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad. But," he added, conviction suddenly leaping into his eyes, "you and I are going to reclaim them. We will bring the battle to their chief camp. There will be none left living to tell their stories. Only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung! We will avenge Kodlak, and they will know terror before the end."

Though she was being volunteered, Arith felt only the compultion to agree. They could not all fly off to murder and leave Jorrvaskr and Whiterun unattended, and of them all Arith was best suited to such challenges. She had travelled with cause for so long now, she would not be left to mind the town, even if she was Thane. She had to take the battle to her enemies, or else be driven mad by inactivity and the boiling of her tainted blood.

Blood that had got Skjor and now Kodlak killed. Blood that called out for blood, and would not be denied. "Take me to them, Vilkas. We shall see this insult repaid a hundred fold."

From behind them, Aela's scratchy voice approved. Of them all, hard, cold and vicious Aela was the first to weep openly. "See that you do, Shield-Sister. Make them bleed."

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

Please leave a review with any comments and constructive criticism you may have. They are always greatly appreciated, and there is no better reward for a writer than to hear back from the readers.

(c) Nutzoide 2012


	9. Resolution

Half-Blind

-An Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim Fan Fiction by Nutzoide-

Chapter 9: Resolution

The mountains south of Dawnstar were as harsh as any in Skyrim, and even the Wayward Pass that ran northwards through them was steep and tretcherous no matter the season. Eternal snows and frozen mud were all that coated the slim passageways between sheer walls of rock on either side, where only the bravest of goats and the most desperate of wolves dared climb. Even to Nords such as Vilkas, used to the more northern reaches of Skyrim, the mountains and high plains of Winterhold seemed inhospitable.

After hours of that climb Arith and her Companion finally stopped to rest as they reached the apex of the pass, closer to the summits on either side than was reasonable in Arith's eye. But it was that or traverse around the range entirely, and that would have taken days. Perhaps worth it for the return journey, but for now they were committed.

It was under that sheltering bridge of rock that Arith and her Companion finally rested in silence after their climb. Neither one had spoken much on their journey, beyond their shared congratulations after a fight with those who would stand in their way, or foolishly attempt to rob them blind. But then, she and Vilkas had never really spoken during her brief stays at Jorrvaskr either, and his thoughts were either too focused on their task or too wrapped up in their recent shared loss to care whether that social bridge was ever made, or maintained.

It was so different to travelling with Lydia, or even Aela. There was no sense of companionship there. No laughter, revelry, simple smiles or arrogant one-upmanship. No boasting, joking or loving. No… friendship. For all her recent bestial wants, and the hunger grumbing in her gut, the faint desire to recapture that lost connection remained ever-present, never drowned by her other wants.

But Vilkas wished to be left to his thoughts, and so she obliged him. Instead she sat in front of the gravestones that poked from the snow, reading the faded, poorly carved names of those who, by idiocy or ill fortune, had not survived this climb. Unlike The Throat of the World, these mountains took no prisoners. Their lack of stature or import didn't bother them. Disrespect those mountains, and they would kill you. Frozen flowers and stalks of tundra cotton rested in front of them, half-buried in what snow could rech under their overhanging shelter, and Arith wished she could have made the same gesture when she had left Lydia behind. The thought had not occurred at the time. She had been too stricken by her grief.

Behind her sat a small shrine to Arkay, the Divine of Birth and Death, and after a moments consideration she turned and crawled over to it, to say a brief prayer. She had been remiss in her devotions to Dibella, even limited as they had been, and now she was sure that she would never likely set foot in her temple again, or kneel before her statuary. Why would Dibella, of all the divines, listen to the words of a creature such as she had now become? Likewise, how could she be an emmisary for Mara in such a state?

But Arkay was meant to be an even handed God, and if in a good cause, perhaps he would hear her.

Watching her from across the path, Vilkas finally spoke. "Your travelling friend... The one you brought back to Jorrvaskr. Kodlak is not the only one you have lost, is he?"

It was not a question, so much as a confirmation, and his voice, ever hard and strong, was quiet as he spoke.

Arith sighed, not knowing whether to be grateful or resentful that she was so transparent. "No. She is gone as well. Died a warrior's death, in spite of me. I ask that Arkay sees her reach the life beyond life that she deserves."

"She will. Of that I have no doubt. A warrior's soul is strong, Arith. It will find its way. As Kodlak's will. Though we might both have allowed those we cared for to reach death's embrace sooner than they should have, we need not grieve for them, or for ourselves. We will avenge them, and they will be at peace."

Arith wanted to believe that, but she knew better. "I avenged her the moment she died. Her killers are slain and rotting in the ground. But it did not quell the anger, or the sorrow, or the pain. The more I kill, the more I eat, the more I run... the relief is short, and the hole in my heart refuses to heal."

Vilkas smiled, as if to him the answer was simple. "Then take it with you, and grow strong from it. Live as she would have wanted you to. Listen to the voice that follows you, as if she was still here. Find what would have pleased her in life, and do it."

"I will. If I know how."

Their first, melancholic conversation ended as the cry of an eagle sounded overhead, circling above their shelter before flying off towards the mountaintop to the east.

Arith watched it go. "Vilkas, if you do not mind, I would still like to climb. See Skyrim from above again."

And then, from that same mountain top, came another cry. The deep, throaty roar of a dragon. Whether it was simple luck or the Divines answering her need for direction she did not know, but whatever it was Arith was going to follow the call, and accept whatever death or reward waited with open arms. That dragon would be hers.

xxx

Though weary, sore and hungry, the end of the day still met Arith and Vilkas with enthusiasm in their hearts, if not their aching muscles. Though the true summit of mount Anthor had been beyond their grasp, the dragon that had claimed the mountain as its own had not. The beast had also been Arith's fiercest fight yet to claim a soul, forcing her to heal both Vilkas and herself more than once in between its passes over them, and its brief landings to spew out its freezing breath.

Not a battle of fury and strength, then, but one of tactics and timing. Making every shot from her bow count to bring the dragon to the ground, co-ordinating her attacks with Vilkas' charges, so neither one of them ever felt the full force of the dragon's might. He did not have Lydia's strong shield to protect him, and Arith knew she could not have stood toe to toe with the beast long, despite her own protection.

As ever, the reward had been worth it though. And not only the warm exhilaration of the soul surging through her, but being able to pluck that power still fresh from her breast to fuel her understanding of the Word that dragon had guarded.

Flesh; SLEN. A second word to the Shout of Ice Form. There was no way Arith could leave that word unlearnt in her mind. It was the shout that had set her in such good stead, and made her a force to be reconed with. The Shout that best spoke from her heart, as a Nord. The one that had likely claimed Lydia's final breath.

She would speak it still, more powerfully than ever, and grow stronger from it.

In comparison, the two bandits that they had slain at Snowpoint Becon had been a footnote to their day. Even exhausted after both their mountain climb and the battle with a dragon, the pair posed little challenge. Vilkas dragged them out into the snow to roll them down the slope of the hill that the mountains had turned into further along their path, while Arith stoked their fire, and pulled the scattered hides into a corner of the tower behind the stairs to make a bed for the night.

The tower itself was all that remained of Snowpoint Becon, the rest of the structure collapsed and filled in with earth and ice. Even the tower itself was open on one side, leaving little in the way of protection from the elements, hence Arith's care in pulling the bedding into what little full shelter there was, should the wind pick up during the night.

When he returned, Vilkas gave her a quizzical look. "Only the one bed, Shield Sister?"

Arith returned the gaze with a matter of fact expression. "I have no desire to freeze tonight, and I doubt you do either. I can trust you not to take advantage, I hope, as I am in no mood tonight for anything but food and sleep."

Vilkas just smiled. "As you wish. Sating those desires should be simple enough. Though they picked a poor place for banditry, those two were competant at catching rabbits, it seems. I have to wonder why they would choose to set up here, of all places."

"Perhaps they had turned ascetic?"

"Heh. If only that were true, it would have been a cult worth encouraging. Come, fuss with the furs later and let us eat while the fire still burns hot."

xxx

The Driftside Refuge proved incapable of living up to its name when Arith and Vilkas reached it. Boredom and the cold had taken the the watchmen from keen eyed and alert to render them idle, and the Arith's arrow struck one in the back of the head, and the other heard Vilkas' war cries as he charged up to meet them.

Both men died before they had even drawn their weapons.

Underground was much the same story, though more vigorous and violent. If any deserved Arith's bestial side it was them, and so as they descended she finally let the wolf loose. Leashed too long and eager to hunt simply for the hunt's sake, her unsettled blood threw her down the stairs to tear apart the men and women milling in the entrance hall, and though one of them might have been a match for her while outnumbered - a swordswoman of no small skill - Arith was not alone. As her furred side was cut by that blade Vilkas' own sword tore into her attacker, dropping her in only a few careful swings.

The scent of them was everywhere though, and this hunt was only starting. Arith salivated at the anticipation, leaving the bodies untouched for now. There would be time to eat later; enough to satisfy without too much excess.

The cramped corridoors proved a boon to Arith's battles as it was a bane to her opponents. She could slash and claw and bite all she liked, slamming her prey to the floor or tearing them apart where they stood, but the large silver swords of the Hand needed a swinging arc to make best use of them. Too many might have been competant hunters out in the open, but with no spears or stabbing blades they were just so much meat between her jaws, staggering away in fear of her inhuman voice before being pounced on or run through by Vilkas' own unwealdy weapon.

The camp archers they found in the dining hall were another story, able to stick her with arrows enough to wound even a werewolf in close combat, and those two women met their ends with great predjudice once Arith and Vilaks could take them on one apeice. They too were not spared Arith's hunger, and clad only in leathers their flesh was stripped from their bones with much satisfaction while Vilka's gathered supplies mid mission. The torturer the Hand employed was also no easy victim, but there was only one of her, and though she might have kept Arith or Vilkas at bay indefinitely with her unnatural reserves of stamina, between them they forced her guard down to claim the kill.

In the chief's rallying room the fight would not be so easy though, and both Arith and Vilkas knew it. The sound of plate steel boots brought them both to a halt from their careful stalking, to hear him discussing strategy with the three men there. The screaming of their fellows echoing through the Refuge had not gone unnoticed, and he intended to flush out, corner and skewer them with little finesse or subtlety.

But likewise, the two insergeants knew they needed to move quickly and with force themselves, while surprise was still their ally. Attacking all four men in a stand up fight would be suicide, Arith's claws needing to meet fleash instead of steel, and Vilkas easily overwhealmed with only his unweildy zweihander to defend himself. Both were better suited to a swift overwhealming attack than a longer skirmish.

Arith's instinct was to dive in anyway, and try to confuse them in the speed of a hit and run attack, but she reigned that desire in. It was too risky. The Silver Hand captain was their main threat. Though they might be killed far more swiftly, the others were also more likely to panic, while if left alone the captain would surely fight on regardless and take his price in blood from one or other of them.

Vilkas on the other hand seemed to have his plan set and drew her attention, motioning first to himself and then the captain. "I will draw their eyes. Come in to kill him from behind. I will count on you Shield Sister."

So saying he tore from their sheltered corner of the coridoorr and careered into the room, sword held high and Kodlak's name on his lips, so that these men might know who it was they had crossed, and that they would take such knowledge to their graves.

As she had guessed, Arith watched the Captain spare only a moment to order his men to attack before he drew his own sword, and turned aside Vilkas' with practiced ease. His subordinates fussed with their weapons and scrabbled to join the fight, but the Captain was already there, pushing Vilkas back across the room to the wall.

And leaving his back open to the coridoor. Arith leaped out and onto the armoured man with a roar, sending the less capable hunters scattering in panic. Carving through the armour with her claws would have been too great a trial for her impatient blood, even safe on the man's back, and so she tore the helm from his head and bit down into his soft, fleshy neck. In a few seconds the man had fallen beneath her, screaming and writhing as her teeth tore through his muscle and cracked bone until nothing but a spasming corpse remained. After that the three terrified men behind their meeting table were a footnote, Vilkas slaying two and Arith the third once she had pulled herself away from the sweet taste of raw flesh and warm blood.

It was Vilkas who checked the place over for stragglers (killing one luckless man in his bed, having slept through the entire attack!) while Arith gave into her beast and fed. She did not need the bloodlust, but the hunt had sated her anxiousness, and now the dead sated her unnatural hunger. It was sickening how luxurious the feeding could be, and she made sure to stop and lick her bloodstained chops well before her heart slowed and the transformation faded from her. Though tempting while a werewolf, she didn't want to become human again with her face still stuck feasting inside someone.

So, naked and full, but at least mostly clean of gore, she sat at the Silver Hand's table and looked at their shared prize. A trace of magical healing flowed from her fingers as she pressed them to her slowly bleeding wounds. The transformation knitted much, and the wolf seemed to heal unnaturally fast, but even so the deep arrows and sword slashes still remained.

"All of the pieces of Wuuthrad, almost." Vilkas returned with those words, seeing the look of uncertainty on Arith's once again human face. "To have lost them so easily, we must not make such a mistake again."

He took a wrapping of cloth from his pack, and reverently gathered the shattered pieces of the ancient weapon to be carried back to Jorrvaskr.

"And now that you are done filling your belly, Shield Sister, may I beg some healing from you? Once your own wounds are settled, of course."

"Don't be a fool, Vilkas. If that was chivalry it has little place in Skyrim, especially down here in these dirty halls. And if not, what skills I have need not wait until you are done joking. Come here and I will heal those cuts."

xxx

The days returning were much more companionable, in Arith's eye. In battle she and Vilkas has bonded some, just as she had with Aela and Farkas, and now they spoke of their conquests, their losses and their past hopes to fill the time. While Arith had spent her years moving from family to mercenary to prisoner to supposed saviour to Companion, running from her losses and from those she endangered and forging new bonds with each new incarnation of herself, Vilkas and his brother had taken from their greatest loss and been put on their one and only path. Whatever their thoughts on the 'curse', they were Companions now until the day they died, raised by them to protect the land of Skyrim as best they could, until they can protect it no more.

In her own childhood such inevitability would have scared Arith. She had relished her freedom to follow the hunt, to study magic with her mother, and to sneak through Riften with her fool of a brother after hours. Now, such security would have been tempting, if it had not come to bite her each time she had made herself too comfortable.

As such as she wanted to believe that Arkay would ensure that Lydia found her place in the Heavens. Her absence was kept in her mind as they spoke of Kodlak, and his own death. He had been the oldest and wisest of the Companions, and his loss was clearly a great blow to Vilkas. More than he had first admitted. Their recent actions had purged the fire from the man's eyes, and the roughness from his words, but it was replaced with an unlikely melancholy that Arith could not place for the life of her.

They parted ways once they reached Whiterun again. Arith wished to visit the warmaiden's again, to speak with Adrianne and watch her work. Sell of some of her spoils. Vilkas however, felt that he had been away from Jorrvaskr and his adopted family for too long this time. "The others have probably prepared Kodlak's funeral by now. Be quick, Shield Sister, and come up to the skyforge to pay your respects."

xxx

Though many people gathered at the steps of Jorrvaskr to watch, the funeral was attended only by the Companions themselves. Surely a man of Kodlaks stature and standing deserved a grander and more alcohol fuelled send-off, but the Companions were sober to a man, standing with reverence around the pyre that Eorland had built upon his forge stones.

This was quite unlike the drunken, grieving and extatic revelery Arith had taken part in when the members of her mercenary band had been slain, and so she remained silent as the forge master himself stood before the group.

"Who will start?" Eorland asked, looking around them expectantly, and it was Aela, firey and confident as always, who strode forward.

"I will do it." She took a breath and looked down breifly, and if chastising herself, or settling her nerves, before looking at them all as one. "Before the ancient flame…"

And as one the Companions joined her, "We grieve."

Eorland took the second line of this prosaic, maudlin verse. "At this loss…

"We weep."

Vilkas next, "For the fallen…"

"We shout."

And finally Farkas, "And for ourselves…"

"We take our leave."

How unfitting for a bold, brave and forward thinking man. But if this was their custom, Arith was not going to speak up. She simply remained silent, and set herself the task to drink a bottle for the man once she was alone in her bed. If the other women in their bunk room wished to join her, they would be wolcome, but that would be *her* last act for him.

Aela lit the pyre. Though the words might be dull and monotone, lacking in true grief or in celebration to his accomplishments in life, the fire was beautiful. "His spirit is departed," Aela spoke, ending the brief service. "Members of the circle, let us withdraw to the underforge, to grieve our last, together."

While they headed for their secret ritual cave, Eorland Grey-Mane stepped before Arith, preventing her from slipping away to drink to the man who had welcomed her into this fold that she had so feared at the time. "Do you have the fragments of Wuuthrad still?" He asked, the only one among them still sounding positive and vital after the funeral. "I will need to prepare them for mounting again."

Nodding, Arith handed over the package that Vilkas had given her.

He took them with strong, careful fingers, appreciative, but blunt and straightforward. "There is one last favour I have to ask of you. There was one last piece of this blade that Kodlak kept close to himself. Would you go to his quarters and retrieve it for me? I'm not sure I'm the best one to go through his things."

Arith couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of the request. "And I am the newest member of his group. I feared them, and fled when Farkas put such stock in me. Since joining I have spent more time in the Rift than I have in Whiterun."

Eorland shrugged. "True, you and he might have spoken only occasionally, but what you spoke of, and how you spoke it, held meaning to the old man, youngling. Though you might not have been in Jorrvaskr to hear it, he spoke highly of you in your absence. Your were an example to the others, through him."

Arith didn't know what to think of that. She had left an impression, even back then? "Oh… Then I suppose it would be my pleasure."

Eorland smiled at her. "Thank you. I'll be here."

xxx

In Kodlak's room Arith found the tip of Wuuthrad's blade kept safely in his bedside desk. Along with a journal. She sat on the bed the book and the tip of the weapon in her lap, fighting with her own curiosity. She had left an impression with him… but how? Had Eorland never mentioned that, she would not have thought twice about leaving the book there, but there was a limit to her willpower, and curiosity had always been an unhealthy vice of hers. She read it, too intrigued about his reasons for speaking highly of her and his wanting to cure himself of the beast. For Arith, the wolf was a crutch, a wonderful escape into violence and satisfying hunger. But it needed to be indulged or that hunger and restlessness would drive her mad, and when she no longer desired the escape into primal, instictive battles, or had no more fores to fight… what then?

~In my dream, I see the line of Harbingers start with Ysgramor. Each of them ascends to Sovngarde, until we come to Terrfyg, who first turned us to the ways of the beast. He tries to enter Sovngarde, but before he can even approach Tsun, he is set upon by a great wolf, who pulls him into the Hunting Grounds, where Hircine laughs with welcoming arms.

~Terrfyg seems regretful, but also eager to join Hircine after a lifetime of service as a beast.

~Then I see every next Harbinger turn away from Sovngarde and enter the Hunting Grounds of their own accord. Until it comes to me, and I see great Tsun on the misty horizon, beckoning me. It appears I have a choice. And then, at my side, a stranger I had not seen before. As I look into her eyes, we turn to see the same wolf who dragged away Terrfyg, and she and I draw weapons together.

~I realize this is only a dream, but a strong enough dream to inspire a man like me to take to writing, so it must be of some import.

~I've spoken of my thoughts to the Circle, witholding the part about the stranger lest Skjor worry I will no longer seek his counsel, and I was not surprised to see them torn by it. Skjor and Aela are strong in the ways of the beast, and even seemed to suggest that the Hunting Grounds would be their choice of afterlife, if it were truly a choice. Vilkas seemed most troubled. The boy is as fierce as a sabre cat in battle, but his heart's fire burns too brightly at times. He felt deceived, and I don't blame him. Farkas didn't know what to think, but I believe he will come around with me and his brother eventually. He usually does. I don't know what to do about Skjor and Aela. I know they respect the Companions, and me, but they take to the blood more deeply than the rest of us.

~Fortune smiles upon us yesterday, Vilkas was telling me how difficult it had been for him to give up his transformations. Until we can pursue a true cure, the twins and I have chosen not to give in to the beastblood. For me, it's provided a clearer head, but Vilkas seems to be suffering a bit for it. Farkas seems completely untroubled. That boy continues to amaze with his fortitude.

~While Vilkas was confiding, through the shadows of Jorrvaskr, I saw a newcomer approach, who wished to know more about our number, and what she might do to aid us. It was the stranger from my dream, I am sure, the one who would stand with me against the beast. Vilkas began speaking obliquely, not wishing to air our problems in front of our guest, and I had to be doubly cautious to not reveal anything of our secrets to the newcomer while also not revealing the details of my dream to Vilkas. I don't know how the politicians deal with these sorts of machinations daily.

~In any case, I've sent Vilkas to test the newcomer. We'll see if she is truly the great warrior I dreamt of.

~This newcomer, it seems, is made of decent stock. She calls herself Arith Half-Blind, on account of a dead right eye, though it seems not to hinder her in battle, and has already impressed some of the Circle with her mettle. I still keep my own counsel on her place in my dream, for now. Let us see what kind of destiny she is carving before hitching to her.

~In the meanwhile, I look for ways of cleansing my blood. The writings and legends on the subject are sparse and contradictory. I don't wish to engage any wizadry on this matter, but I fear they may be the only ones who best know how to navigate these worlds of knowledge.

~It's apparent to me now that Terrfyg's choice to turn us was indeed a mistake. Magics and their ilk are not in keeping with the spirit of the Companions. We face our problems directly, without the need of such trickery. I can only hope to guide us back to the true path of Ysgramor before the rot takes me.

~Arith continues to impress. I don't know where she will stand on the question of the blood, but the question has not been presented yet. She does know that we carry the beastblood, and appears curious about it. Soon enough, I can explain our troubles, and hopefully see what role she will play.

~I'm amazed that Aela thinks she can keep a secret among this drunken rabble. Especially with the loss of Skjor (my heart aches), emotions are fraying, and the walls of discretion are the first to fall.

~Apparently she and Arith are waging their own separate war against the Silver Hand, in retaliation for Skjor's death. Their hearts are noble, but the course of vengeance is running hot, and I fear the counterstroke that may come if they do not rein in their fury.

~ Arith shows valor, though, even in this more underhanded time. We have not had cause to speak much and that is something I deeply regret. I have high hopes for her destiny, as I realized that her appearance in my dream may indeed mark her as the Harbinger to succeed me.

~I have received few dreams over the course of my life, but when they come, I have learned to trust them. I have also learned to trust the instincts of my heart, which tells me that Arith can carry the Companions' legacy as truly as any residing in Jorrvaskr, especially with the loss of Skjor. Aela is too solitary, Vilkas too fiery, and Farkas too kind-hearted. Only Arith stands as a true warrior who can keep a still mind amidst these burning hearts.

~I will not speak to her of any of this, though. It is too much to burden another with. My hope is that she and I can keep counsel over the coming years, that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers. All things in time. Firstly, I will seek her assistance in the matter of the witches of Glenmoril. It would appear that our path to the cure is not without some poetic justice for the tricksters who first cursed us.

With the diary safely back in its drawer Arith walked slowly back through the underhalls of Jorrvaskr, her mind turning over all those words. He *had* thought so highly of her, a newcomer with nothing to reccomender her but her bow, her axe and a little healing magic.

Coming back below stairs, Torvar passed her looking melancholy, but eager to change that. "I might head down to the meadery later, see what they're brewing up. You can smell the honey on the wind."

Shallow. So like him. She would drink, surely, but not for the sake of drunkenness. Maybe she didn't give him enough credit, but Arith doubted that Torvar wanted to mourn with his mead.

xxx

It was with an unsettled mind, the pleasant glow of the alcohol fading from her cheeks in the dead stillness of night, that Arith quietly left her bunk and the snoring of her fellow female Companions. For all their late night talk and drinking she could not sleep, her werewolf blood leaving her still restless after so much thought of death these last days. It hadn't used to bother her. She had become a killer before becoming a woman, and in these hard lands justified murder was both commonplace and necessary to keep their way of life going, and their traditions alive.

Loss, however, was a harder thorn to swallow. Arith had prefered to abandon lives and loves than have them taken from her, and she wondered why that had changed. Lydia had been a servant, essentially. A firm and fast friend, true, but a woman assigned to die in her stead, should the need arise, to protect a Thane of Whiterun, and the Dovahkiin. Arith could not have run from her, even if she had wanted to. She had provided no home for her to guard, and so Lydia had been duty bound to follow. Had that been a mistake?

The answer Arith had finally come to, was no. People chose their priorities, and then died for them. Lydia had done just that, albeit under unfortunate and guilt drenched circumstances. Likewise, Kodlak had too, knowing full well that the Silver Hand had plans to assault Jorrvaskr at some point.

From within the Underforge, the Circle of Companions were evidently still awake as well, despite the hour. And Vilkas' words mirrored her own thoughts. "The old man had one wish before he died. And he didn't get it. It's as simple as that."

Aela, the one of them Arith was closest to, disagreed as Arith herself entered. "Being moon-born is not as much of a curse as you think, Vilkas."

"That's fine for you, but he wanted to be clean," was Vilkas' retort. "He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovengard. But all that was taken from him."

"And you avenged him."

It was Farkas to spoke at the same time as Arith did to announce herself, and with the same words; "Kodlak did not care for vengeance."

Vilkas and Aela looked over to her at last, Vilkas with a smile on his tired face, and Aela with an expression of surprise. "No, Farkas, he didn't. And vengeance is not what this is about. We should be honouring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood."

Arith's words were tired and uncomplicated, but she had to weigh in with her own opinion. The time was past to be a spectator and agent in the Companions' story, and to prompt action in the way that Kodlak might have intended her to in the future. "Would you not think so, Aela? It was what he wanted, and though you might not always have agreed, he led you all well, did he not?"

Aela looked at her, as if seeing her as more than just a young wolf-ling for the first time. "You're right. It *is* what he wanted, and he deserved to get it."

Vilkas had clearly been thinking long and hard on the subject already, and had his plan. "Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death. You know the legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor."

Aela nodded. " 'There the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel.' We can't even enter the tomb without the Wuuthrad, and it is in pieces, as it has been for over a thousand years."

Arith smiled, and stepped aside. "Do you think your forgemaster has been so idle, after Vilkas and I went to such lengths to recover those pieces?"

Eorland stood behind her. "Dragons were once stories. And elves once ruled skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must remain so. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken, and repaired." In his hands, he held the axe that he had spent all night reforging.

Vilkas stared, mouth agape. "Is that... Did you repair the blade?"

Eorland's smile was a broad one. "This is the first time that I've had all the pieces, thanks to our Shield Sister here. 'The flames of a hero can re-forge the shattered.' The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the re-birth of Wuuthrad, and now it will take you to meet him once more. As the one who bore the fragments, I think *you* should be the one to carry Wuuthrad into battle, Arith Half-Blind. The rest of you, prepare to journey to the tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak."

Arith took the battle axe in her small hands, and bowed her head. "Get some sleep, my friends. We leave at sun up, and the road is long. You will join me, I hope."

As one, eyes wide and spirits stoked, they agreed.

xxx

Though it took days upon days by foot, the quartet of Companions reached the coast of Winterhold in good time. The weather had been kind to them on their trek through the mountains, and a pair of snow trolls were the worst they faced in that frozen north – no longer a threat ot Arith alone, never mind the four of them marching their path together.

But the cold, salty smell of the sea air and the vicious winds that came off it did not mark the end of their trials. That was only the beginning. Ysgramor's tomb had been dug in one of the many islands just off shore, and even at low tide they had to brave the freezing waters to reach the towering lump of rock. From the outside it was an island like any other, but the cylindrical hollow dug into its lower shelf marked the traditional entrance into the barrow, resting safely at the bottom of the rocky shelf.

It was only once they were underground that Vilkas lit their fire, so that they might be dry for the trials ahead. Standing over them in their underclothes was the statue of Ysgramor himself, his pedestal surrounded by offerings decades, even centuries old. Aela and Farkas seemed reverent to their surroundings, but Vilkas spoke freely, and with reasonable words, to introduce them to the tomb proper.

"This is the resting place of Ysgramor, and his most trusted generals. You should be cautious."

Arith likewise did not hold her tongue. She might have done a week ago, but she was no outsider or youngling now. If Kodlak had been willing to trust her as far as he wrote, then she had nothing to fear by speaking her mind. "Caution? What for. You suspect the Draugr to infest even this place?"

Vilkas looked at her with considering eyes. "No, not the damned, but the honoured dead. The original Compaions. Their finest warriors rest with Ysgramor. You'll have to prove yourself to them, so the stories say. It's not that you're intruding. I'll wager they've actually been expecting us. They will just want to be sure that you're worthy. Be ready for an honourable battle."

"You speak as if you won't be joining me, Vilkas."

Those considering eyes turned humble, and ever so slightly amused at her insight. "Kodlak was right. I let vengeance rule my heart. I regret nothing of what we did at Driftshade, but I can go no further with my mind fogged, or my heart grieved."

And my own mind is not fogged? Arith asked among her own roiling throughts. Is my heart more healed than yours, and for more than just a man whom I never trusted even a fraction as much as he did me? But then, he did trust her. These people around her, older than her by at least a few years, if not more, were no more mature than her. Though Vilkas might not be able to subdue his own demons, and calm his insecurities, Arith could and would subdue hers. She was no victim to her own mind, or any foe she might face on the battlefield, living or dead. "Then how can I enter?"

Vilkas merely motioned to the statue. "Return Wuuthgrad to Ysgramor. It should open the way."

Whether magical of mechanical Arith couldn't tell, but laying the axe to rest in the statue's raised hands did indeed open the way, and so she, Aela and Farkas ventured inside with barely a word said between them.

What words there were, were Arith's. "You do not mind that your brother does not join us, Farkas? He has come all this way."

"He knows his heart, Shield-Sister. Your last attack has made him wary, and I wager he would rather remain behind than meet these ghosts still baring regrets."

xxx

The ghosts themsevles were less frightening than Arith expected, certainly less dark and troublesome than the walking corpses of the Draugr. When they came to join the fight they appeared with an ephemeral blue-white glow, and likewise vanished upon their slaying with the same light. Neither warm nor cold, hateful or kind, they attacked with furvor and fury, but no malice. It did not seem like a playful test or meaningful trial to Arith – their weapons passed through the spirits slowly dashing their forms away as they did – but it was amazing to see so many men and women from so many eras join to make up the challenge. Bowmen, spearmen, swordswomen, the challenge was not in the hard fight, but in the tactical variety they all presented. It almost seemed unfortunate that they forced Arith to fight, rather than allow her to speak with them, and study. Surely these spirits would have had much to teach their decendants.

It was when they found the traces of life, rather than death, that they stopped to re-assess and catch their breaths. Spider webs covered the burial room and it's exit, and it was then that Farkas finally volanteered his first sentence not drawn from him by Arith, Aela or his brother. Sadly, it was to leave them.

"I can't go any further shield sister."

Arith blinked in surprise as they all shared a bottle to warm them. "Farkas? Why?"

"He thrust his sword at the nearest web. "Ever since dustman's cairn, the big crawly ones have been too much for me."

Aela actually started laughting, and it took a great deal of willpower for Arith not to do the same. "Spiders, Farkas? Truly?"

To his credit, the man kept his face serious, but did not seem to take any offence. "Everyone has his weakness, and this one's mine. I'm not proud, but I'll stay back with Vilkas. Give my regards to Ysgramor."

So it was that Arith and Aela continued to the final rooms with only one another to guard against the spirits of their fore-bears.

"And the men-folk say it is *we* who should remain to tend the hearth?" Aela said with a derisive grin, sheathing her sword at last. "Strange to see who stands to the last, eh?"

The final room within the barrow was a large stone hall, empty but for a simple pedestal altar in its centre, a burning blue flame atop it. Kodlak's ghost stood, hands outstretched, warming himself by it. "Greetings Shield-Sisters."

Both Arith and Aela dashed over, their fatigue vanishing in an instant. "Kodlak? Is that really you?" And in Arith's head she could only think, 'We saw you dead! What of Lydia? What of HER?'

But of course this was no time for such words, or such weakness of spirit. Kodlak was here, and she doubted that her insecurities – her lost love – were something he could remedy. There were so many dead here, they would not know her.

"Of course it is me. My fellow Harbingers and I have been warming ourselves here. Trying to avoid Hircine."

Aela looked around. "But there's nobody else here."

"You see only me because your heart knows only me as the Companions' leader. I'd wager old Vignar could see half a dozen of my predecesors. And I see them all. The ones in Sovengard. The ones trapped with me in Hircine's realm. And they all see you. You've brought honour to the name of the Companions. We won't soon forget it."

Arith dropped her pack and rooted in it to pull out one of the severed heads she had made sure to pack for the journey. The witches Kodlak himself has sent her to slay. "Vilkas said you can still be cured."

Kodlak smiled broadly. "Did he now? I can only hope. You still have the Witches' heads. Excellent. Throw one into the fire. It will release their magic, for me at least."

Without even considering what would come next, Arith did so. It was the right thing to do. Kodlak's spirit doubled over, red mist pouring from both the brazier and his own blue-ish ghost, coalescing into the form of an enourmous wolf before him. It leaped to attack its former host, but Aela and Arith were now well used to fighting ghosts. Between them all, Kodlak and Aela baited the beast every which way, drawing off it's snapping jaws and bounding attempts to claw at them, while Arith shot her magically charged arrows into and through its insubstantial body. Each attack pulled a little more of its red form apart, until it fell at last, dissipating into the air.

And with it, Kodlkak's own form begain to waver. "You have slain the beast in me. Thank you for this gift. The other harbingers remain trapped by Hircine though. Perhaps from Sovenguard, the heroes of old can join me in their rescue. The Harrowing of the Hunting Grounds. It would be a battle of such triumph. And perhaps some day you will join us in that battle. But for now, return to Jorrvaskr. Triumph in your victory. And lead the Companions to further glory."

"I will try, Sheild-Brother."

There was something cleansing about whatching him bow to her, which she returned in kind as he turned and walked into a place beyond her sight. It brought more satisfaction to her heart than… anything she had done in these last few years. Dragons might thrill her, and bridgands might get her adrenaline flowing, but this serene satisfaction at having bough Kodlak freedom from his spiritual bonds… The peace that brough her, if only for this moment, was immensely welcome.

"Did I hear right?" Aela suddenly said from behind her, breaking Arith reverie. "Did he say *you* were to lead the companions?"

Oh, of course. I am still the newest of their number, after all, she thought. It was you who tought me. "That... upsets you."

"I'm just surprised," she said. There was a matter-of-fact air to those words, but one still not entirely happy about it. "But your strength and honour are apparent to all." Then she spoke more softly, as the friend Arith had recently came to know. "And it's my honour to be the first to adress you as Harbinger. Let's go tell the others."

Arith's heart fell just a little as Aela turned her back. She didn't want to dissapoint or disenfranchise the woman further, but she was not yet done. "Aela, wait…"

She did, turning back with uncertain eyes. Arith met them with as much courage as she could muster. These days, that was quite a lot.

"Will you help me, as we have helped Kodlak?" Arith pulled the second witch head from her bag. "I know you are close to the beast, but me..? I do not know how long I would be able to last, enslaved to these desires. If I do not break free now, I doubt I will be given another chance."

Aela, close her eyes and bowed her head, but neither her brow nor her lips turned downwards. "If that is your wish, Arith Half-Blind, Harbinger of the Companions, then I will see the wolf torn from you. But what then? What of us who wish to remain hunters in the night?"

Honestly, Arith didn't know. But she was no ruler, and had no decrees to bestoy upon her. "Then be free to hunt as you wish. I will not dictate to you, Aela. Or anyone. But whether I can settle as Kodlak did, to lead you? I fear that there are many people that will draw me away from Jorrvaskr, not least myself."

Aela seemed to understand that. "Your wanderlust is not yet sated. And you are the Dovahkiin, no doubt bound for more greatness than has already been bestowed by the Jarl, or by Kodlak, rest his soul."

"So you and the others will be content to return to Whiterun without me? To wait for my visits, however infrequent they might be?"

"Eventually we'll return, and tell the others of your standing. But this... this is the tomb of Ysgramor. I think I'm just joing to... commune for a bit. This place is worthy of some time. Come, let us slay your beast. No doubt it will be as fierce a test of us as you yourself would be!"

xxx

The stillness was strange, looking out over the ocean. The beast was dead, slain by Aela's hand and Arith's own enchanted bow, and the hunger didn't come. The adrenaline faded rapidly, leaving her tired and only quietly pleased. No gorging, no pumping heart in her ears, no push to find the next of the pack and claim it as well.

In the past, other activities had filled that void. A feast with her mercenaries. Sex with the partner of the month. Sleep of the dead to ward out the pain of war wounds she had not yet learned to heal fully. A pleasant, teasing word with her housecarl, to unwind from the day.

Strange how the werewolf had torn that soft, colourful variety from the afterword of her battles, simply to replace it with bloody feeding, uncomfortable sleep, and a rapturous, repetetive desire for the next hunt.

Maybe she'd needed it, and maybe she would again, but it was such a pleasant surprise to feel *tired* again. Just tired and aching and looking forward to making camp under the frozen stars.

Not with the Companions though. She had said her goodbyes to them for now. Vilkas had been shocked, as Aela had, by the wolf-woman's pronouncement of her as Harbinger. It was probably kinder to let them think on it without her there, and come to their own conclusions. Farkas seemed pleased for her, and regretted her parting company with them when apparently celebrations were in order, but if Arith was not returning with them then better for that to happen when she did finally return to Jorrvaskr.

It was not as if they would be returning immediately either. Vilkas wished to stay and study, as Aela did, and Farkas wold not leave his brother behind to return alone. Loyal to the last.

So the question, in Arith's tired, quiet mind; Where for her now? It would be a longer way back to Riften than Jorrvaskr, and even if she did make that trek she could do little good alone. The Blade woman and her conspiracy could hang or resolve itself as it saw fit. Arith was no politician or spy.

What would Lydia want me to do? She smiled as the answer came to her almost instantly. To do what good I can. To follow my own desires, and interests here in the north. With the beast gone, and no Lydia to take with her to greater things, she wished to lose herself in work, smithing and studying now that she was so close to the College of Winterhold.

Still that smile remained on her scarred face. 'And while I cannot help Riften, Mjoll can. Perhaps I will hunt out her lost sword for her, if I could only find where it lay.' That would be a far worthier feat – something Lydia would have approved of, if not as a warrior, then as a woman. Perhaps that would bring her the satisfaction that the battles she had lost herself in had not.

xxx

To Be Continued...

xxx

Author's Note: As anyone still aware of still story will have noticed, it has essentially gone on hiatus for the moment. I've not been playing Skyrim recently, and haven't much impetus to right now. The reason this chapter got posted is that it had been sitting complete for the last two months, and awaiting a once-over for proofing.

The next chapter is also mostly done, as I've been posting them with a chapter in hand to minimise delays, but it's clear that I'm just not going to be writing any more of this, at least for now. This seems like a natural break in Arith's adventuring life, between major events, and so when she returns further down the line it will be with another full story ark. Once I've got back to playing Skyrim and writing it up.

Hopefully you'll agree that this is a better place to leave it for now, than stop and leave it hanging mid-storyline. And if you would still be interested in reading more of Arith's adventures when I start back into it, please sign up to a story or author alert here.

(c) Nutzoide 2013


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